This poem will never reach its destination. On Rousseau's Ode To Posterity
Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination.
The road to the heart is the ear
Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.
Come! you presence will either give me life or kill me with pleasure.
Anyone who seeks to destroy the passions instead of controlling them is trying to play the angel.