Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

When the doors of perception are cleansed, men will see things as they truly are, infinite.

Do what you will this life's a fiction, And is made up of contradiction.

When I tell the truth, it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those that do.

The spirits of the air live on the smells Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.

Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.

Everything to be imagined is an image of truth.