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Time, the devourer of all things.

Genius begins beautiful works, but only labor finishes them.

Love is a thing full of anxious fears.

Now are fields of corn where Troy once stood.

We're slow to believe what wounds us.

Live with your century; but do not be its creature. Work for your contemporaries; but create what they need, not what they praise.

Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing, which cannot be exaggerated. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression of everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true.

Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most — you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love.

For God, they say, pervades all things, earth and sea's expanse and heaven's depth.

His cares are eased with intervals of bliss;

His little children, climbing for a kiss,

Welcome their father's late return at night;

His faithful bed is crowned with chaste delight.

Yet theirs is repose without care, and a life that knows no fraud, but is rich in treasures manifold.

So deep is their love of flowers and their glory in begetting honey.

I must essay a path whereby I, too, may rise from earth and fly victorious on the lips of men.