Superstition Is The Poetry Of Life.

Only The Heart Without A Stain Knows Perfect Ease. [ger., Ganz Unbefleckt Geniesst Sich Nur Das Herz.]

To Me The External Existence Of My Soul Is Proved From My Idea Of Activity. If I Work Incessantly Until My Death, Nature Will Give Me Another Form Of Existence When The Present Can No Longer Sustain My Spirit.

The Smallest Hair Throws Its Shadow. [ger., Das Kleinste Harr Wirft Seinen Schatten.]

The Soul Is Indestructible And Its Activity Will Continue Through Eternity. It Is Like The Sun, Which, To Our Eyes, Seems To Set At Night; But It Has In Reality Only Gone To Diffuse Its Light Elsewhere.

Sing It Not In Mournful Numbers.