A hair divides what is false and true.

I hide my grief, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die, my love.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help-for it As impotently moves as you or I

So I be written in the Book of Love. I do not care about that Book Above. Erase my name, or write it as you will. So I be written in the Book of Love.

He who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere.

I wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell.

My friend, let's not think of tomorrow, but let's enjoy this fleeting moment of life.