When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me and a trembling seizes me all over.

Death is an evil; the gods have so judged; had it been good, they would die.

Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.

Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.

The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

Love shook my heart/ Like the wind on the mountain/ Troubling the oak-trees

Stand and face me, my love,and scatter the grace in your eyes.