Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves, As souls only understand souls.

A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her that it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth ever afterward resumes its liberty.

Be not ashamed women, ... You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.

Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.