Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.
Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us
Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.
Whatever one loves most is beautiful.
Death is an evil; the gods have so judged; had it been good, they would die.
Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.