“Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.”

See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?

Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.

Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.

And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.

Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.

I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.

If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.

The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.

First our pleasures die – and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust – and we die too.

I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!

Before man can be free, and equal, and truly wise, he must cast aside the chains of habit and superstition; he must strip sensuality of its pomp, and selfishness of its excuses, and contemplate actions and objects as they really are.

Waiting a lifetime to touch your lips again wouldn’t be too long.

And I don’t know if it’s his lips or his fingers that make thousands of roses bloom on my skin.

Your voice sends vibrations through my ears, as the frequency of each word that falls from your lips, tracing every bone of my spine, making me weak.

With him, I fly high in the bluest of skies for his lips kiss all my worries goodbye.

Lips getting dried, heart pumping faster, sweat seeping through the pores, cheeks turning red. Dear summer, stop acting like my lover.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.

He said ‘words are nothing but clumsy’-as he watched poetry fall from my lips.

Kiss me with those lips burn forever into my skin envelop me within your love until I am whole again.