Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.

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.

What cannot be said will be wept.

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

No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.

Raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man.

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