God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.
As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
A minute's success pays the failure of years.
At last awake from life, that insane dream we take for waking now.
I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.