Passion is Love's blind guide, but the only one he hath.
As the bud a leaf, so at last the thought becomes a word.
Life without Love is as a flower without fragrance.
Then is Love blest, when from the cup of the body he drinks the wine of the soul.
It is no wonder if Art frequently prefers Illusion to Truth: for Illusion is her servant, but Truth her mistress.
Wail not too wildly for expiring Love: The Love that dies was never quite alive.