I am under the direction of messengers from Heaven daily and nightly.

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou build thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

Those who enter the gates of heaven are not beings who have no passions or who have curbed the passions, but those who have cultivated an understanding of them.

Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.

What is grand is necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

Gratitude is heaven itself.