There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.

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The dew of compassion is a tear.

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Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;... Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties - give me a cigar!

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I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.

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I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

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Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

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There is something to me very softening in the presence of a woman, some strange influence, even if one is not in love with them, which I cannot at all account for, having no very high opinion of the sex. But yet, I always feel in better humor with myself and every thing else, if there is a woman within ken.

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But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

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