Christ Rode On An Ass, But Now

The Cloudlets Are Lazily Sailing O'er The Blue Atlantic Sea; And Mid The Twilight There Hovers A Shadowy Figure O'er Me.

And The Dancing Has Begun Now, And The Dancings Whirl Round Gaily In The Waltz's Giddy Mazes, And The Ground Beneath Them Trembles.

Where Books Are Burnt, Men Finish Up Being Burnt Too.

It Is Only Kindred Griefs That Draw Forth Our Tears, And Each Weeps Really For Himself.

The Men Of Action Are, After All, Only The Unconscious Instruments Of The Men Of Thought.