Night Is The Other Half Of Life,

You Can’t, If You Can’t Feel It, If It Never Rises From The Soul, And Sways The Heart Of Every Single Hearer, With Deepest Power, In Simple Ways. You’ll Sit Forever, Gluing Things Together, Cooking Up A Stew From Other’s Scraps, Blowing On A Miserable Fire, Made From Your Heap Of Dying Ash. Let Apes And Children Praise Your Art, If Their Admiration’s To Your Taste, But You’ll Never Speak From Heart To Heart, Unless It Rises Up From Your Heart’s Space.

The Errors Of The Observer Come From The Qualities Of The Human Mind.

This Is The True Measure Of Love, When We Believe That We Alone Can Love, That No One Could Ever Have Loved So Before Us, And That No One Will Ever Love In The Same Way After Us.

To Blow Is Not To Play On The Flute; You Must Move The Fingers. [ger., Blasen Ist Nicht Floten, Ihr Musst Die Finger Bewegen.]

Superstition Is The Poetry Of Life. It Is Inherent In Man's Nature; And When We Think It Is Wholly Eradicated, It Takes Refuge In The Strangest Holes And Corners, Whence It Peeps Out All At Once, As Soon As It Can Do It With Safety.