Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.