When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought[.]

Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title

For while directly we say that it [the length of human life] is ages long, we are reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to the ground.