When love is not madness, it is not love.
These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.
One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.
Love that is not madness is not love.
In this world, all who live but dream they act here.
Here am bound, the scorn of fate; 'Twas a dream that once a state I enjoyed of light and gladness. What is life? 'Tis but a madness. What is life? A thing that seems, A mirage that falsely gleams, Phantom joy, delusive rest, Since is life a dream at best, And even dreams themselves are dreams.
Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.
For even in dreams a good deed is not lost.
For all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.
But whether it be dream or truth, to do well is what matters. If it be truth, for truth's sake. If not, then to gain friends for the time when we awaken.