“I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.”

You’re walking by the tomb of Battiades, Who knew well how to write poetry, and enjoy Laughter at the right moment, over the wine.

A good man never dies.

More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.

A big book is a big misfortune.

I abhor, too, the roaming lover, nor do I drink from every well; I loathe all things in common.

A great book is like great evil.

Nothing unattested do I sing.

Set a thief to catch a thief.

Here sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.

Two goddesses now must Cyprus adore; The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four; Stella’s wit is so charming, so sweet her fair face, She shines a new Venus, a Muse, and a Grace.

O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.

Big book, a big bore.

To little men, gods send little things.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep, and still be counted as warriors. (I make up this strange, angry packet for you, threaded with love.) I think you thought there was no such place for you, and perhaps there was none then.

There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.

On eyes that watch as well as eyes that weep Descends the solemn mystery of sleep, Toiling and climbing to the very close

I remember weeping behind the camera, because I was so moved by the way they connected.

Behold a candle, how it gives its light. It weeps its life away drop by drop in order to give forth its flame of light.

The only thing man knows instinctively is how to weep.

Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fullness of the past, The years that are not more.