The German Language Is The Organ Among

Paradise Is Always Where Love Dwells.

I Have Made As Much Out Of Myself As Could Be Made Of The Stuff, And No Man Should Require More.

There Are Souls Which Fall From Heaven Like Flowers, But Ere They Bloom Are Crushed Under The Foul Tread Of Some Brutal Hoof.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.

A Scholar Knows No Boredom.