The More Perfect A Thing Is, The

The Well Heeded Well Heard.

A Man's Renown Is Like The Hue Of Grass, Which Comes And Goes.

No One Thinks Of How Much Blood It Costs.

I Found Myself Within A Forest Dark.

Like The Lark That Soars In The Air, First Singing, Then Silent, Content With The Last Sweetness That Satiates It, Such Seemed To Me That Image, The Imprint Of The Eternal Pleasure.