Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.
A childlike mind in its simplicity practises that science of good to which the wise may be blind.
But how is the artist to protect himself against the corruption of the age which besets him on all sides?
Strange customs do not thrive in foreign soil.
Even weak men when united are powerful.
He cannot complain of a hard sentence, who is made master of his own fate.
Time flies on restless pinions - constant never.
An honest man you may form of windle-straws, but to make a rogue you must have grist.
Man only plays when in the full meaning of the word he is a man, and he is only completely a man when he plays.
Cling to thy native land, for it is the land of thy fathers?
To the fool-king belongs the world.
A deep meaning often lies in old customs.
The iron chain and the silken cord are both equally bonds.
Yet have I ever heard it said that spies and tale-bearers have done more mischief in this world than poisoned bowl or the assassin's dagger.
When the measured dance of the hours brings back the happy smile of spring, the buried dead is born again in the life-glance of the sun. The germs which perished to the eye within the cold breast of the earth spring up with joy in the bright realm of day.
On dreary night let lusty sunshine fall.
A healthy nature needs no God or immortality
What reason, like the careful ant, draws laboriously together, the wind of accident sometimes collects in a moment.
Even now, nature is the only flame, on which the poetic spirit feeds; from it alone it draws all its power, to it alone it speaks even in the artificial, in the man engaged in culture.
You have to go the rounds from individual to individual in order to gather the totality of the race.
In the case of a creative mind, it seems to me, the intellect has withdrawn its watchers from the gates, and the ideas rush in pell-mell and only then does it review and inspect the multitudes.
Soon is the struggle past, and to the earth, To the eternal sun, I render back These atoms, joined in me for pain and pleasure.
Even in a righteous cause force is a fearful thing.
There are evil spirits who suddenly fix their abode in man's unguarded breast, causing us to commit devilish deeds, and then, hurrying back to their native hell, leave behind the stings of remorse in the poisoned bosom.
Sentimental poetry differs from naive poetry in that it relates the real state at which the latter stops to ideas and applies ideas to that reality.
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