Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.

There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.

I will let my body flow like water over the gentle cushions.

I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.

Now the Earth with many flowers puts on her spring embroidery

I know not what to do, my mind is divided

What cannot be said will be wept.