At the point when affection is not frenzy, it is not adore.
For man's greatest crime is to have been born.
The heart is an astrologer that always divines the truth.
Grief has been compared to a hydra; for every one that dies, two are born.
In this treacherous world Nothing is the truth nor a lie. Everything depends on the color Of the crystal through which one sees it
And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death