“When anger spreads through the breath, guard thy tongue from barking idly.”

There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.

Eros seizes and shakes my very soul like the wind on the mountain shaking ancient oaks.

Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.

Now the Earth with many flowers puts on her spring embroidery.

The Moon and Pleiades have set, Midnight is nigh, The time is passing, passing, yet Alone I lie.

I would not think to touch the sky with two arms

In gold sandals / dawn like a thief / fell upon me.

What cannot be said will be wept.

Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us.

Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.

Dancing up the full moon Round some fair new altar Trample the soft blossoms of fine grass.

No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.

Whatever one loves most is beautiful.

For some the fairest thing on the dark earth is Thermopylae, And the Spartan phalanx lowering lances to die.

All the while, believe me, I prayed our night would last twice as long.

Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.

There are moments when I feel like giving up or giving in, but I soon rally again and do my duty as I see it: to keep the spark of life inside me ablaze.

It is as easy to draw back a stone thrown with force from the hand, as to recall a word once spoken.

Prayer allows us to wait without worry.

I did some soul-searching, took a break and decided I was going to live my life only for me.

went into the nearest and humblest inn which first met my gaze.

“If by chance you ever feel as though you’ve come to know these songs, please consider yourself a friend because in a manner of speaking, you know me.

We have to fight them daily, lake fleas, those many small worries about the morrow, for they sap our energies.

I’m not a sculptor; I’m a hard-edged model maker.