Well, Yes: People Write Poems When They

The Whole World Is A Series Of Miracles, But We're So Used To Them We Call Them Ordinary Things.

The Naive Was Only A Part Of My Fairy Tales; Humour Was The Real Salt In Them.

I Have Gone Through The Most Terrible Affair That Could Possibly Happen; Only Imagine, My Shadow Has Gone Mad; I Suppose Such A Poor, Shallow Brain, Could Not Bear Much; He Fancies That He Has Become A Real Man, And That I Am His Shadow.

I Would Give Gladly All The Hundreds Of Years That I Have To Live, To Be A Human Being Only For One Day, And To Have The Hope Of Knowing The Happiness Of That Glorious World Above The Stars.

Almighty God, Thee Only Have I; Thou Steerest My Fate, I Must Give Myself Up To Thee! Give Me A Livelihood! Give Me A Bride! My Blood Wants Love, As My Heart Does!