Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
Talent perceives differences; genius, unity.
Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.