Be not entangled in this world of days and nights; Thou hast another time and space as well.

Why hast thou made me born in this country, The inhabitant of which is satisfied with being a slave?

If the object of poetry is, to make men, then poetry is the heir of prophecy.

Plants and minerals are bound to predestination. The faithful is only bound to the Divine orders.

Indeed, in view of its function, religion stands in greater need of a rational foundation of its ultimate principles than even the dogmas of science.

Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians.

But only a brief moment is granted to the brave one breath or two, whose wage is the long nights of the grave.