“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another.”

God is full of mercy for everyone, as He has been towards you. He is a father before He is a judge.

There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body’s sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.

There are misfortunes in life that no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible.

Misfortune does not help us to believe.

All for one and one for all, united we stand divided we fall.

Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it, without looking at it, or even if we have seen and looked at it, without recognizing it.

You scholars, you’re in communication with the devil.

Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, a mind not of the women but of the poet; she did not please, she intoxicated.

Your life story is a novel; and people, though they love novels wound between two yellow paper covers, are oddly suspicious of those which come to them in living vellum.

So he went down, smiling sceptically and mutter the final word in human wisdom: ‘Perhaps!

How did I escape? With difficulty. How did I plan this moment? With pleasure!

Besides we are men, and after all it is our business to risk our lives.

No, I slept as I always do when I am bored and have not the courage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry and have not the desire to eat.

Love is the most selfish of all the passions.

Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.

It is almost as difficult to keep a first class person in a fourth class job, as it is to keep a fourth class person in a first class job.

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.