Fear is the proof of a degenerate mind.
Each draws to his best-loved.
No day shall erase you from the memory of time
I will be gone from here and sing my songs/ In the forest wilderness where the wild beasts are,/ And carve in letters on the little trees/ The story of my love, and as the trees/ Will grow letters too will grow, to cry/ In a louder voice the story of my love.
I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.
The flocks fear the wolf, the crops the storm, and the trees the wind.