I Fall Upon The Thorns Of Life.

The Encomium Of One Incapable Of Flattery Is Indeed Flattering.

A Lovely Lady, Garmented In Light From Her Own Beauty.

I Never Was Attached To That Great Sect, Whose Doctrine Is That Each One Should Select Out Of The Crowd A Mistress Or A Friend, And All The Rest, Though Fair And Wise, Commend, To Cold Oblivion.

For There Are Deeds Which Have No Form, Sufferings Which Have No Tongue.

A Poet Is A Nightingale, Who Sits In Darkness And Sings To Cheer Its Own Solitude With Sweet Sounds.