I Am Hungry, Feed Me; I Am

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.

How Did I Escape? With Difficulty. How Did I Plan This Moment? With Pleasure!

It Is Not The Tree That Forsakes The Flower, But The Flower That Forsakes The Tree.

Love Is The Most Selfish Of All The Passions.

Joy To Hearts Which Have Suffered Long Is Like The Dew On The Ground After A Long Drought; Both The Heart And The Ground Absorb That Beneficent Moisture Falling On Them, And Nothing Is Outwardly Apparant.