When The Gods Were More Manlike, Men

The Storm Is Master. Man, As A Ball, Is Tossed Twixt Winds And Billows.

Man Is An Imitative Creature.

To Gain A Crown By Fighting Is Great, To Reject It Divine.

When The Measured Dance Of The Hours Brings Back The Happy Smile Of Spring, The Buried Dead Is Born Again In The Life-glance Of The Sun. The Germs Which Perished To The Eye Within The Cold Breast Of The Earth Spring Up With Joy In The Bright Realm Of Day.

The Greeks Put Us To Shame Not Only By Their Simplicity, Which Is Foreign To Our Age; They Are At The Same Time Our Rivals, Nay, Frequently Our Models, In Those Very Points Of Superiority From Which We Seek Comfort When Regretting The Unnatural Character Of Our Manners. We See That Remarkable People Uniting At Once Fullness Of Form And Fullness Of Substance, Both Philosophising And Creating, Both Tender And Energetic, Uniting A Youthful Fancy To The Virility Of Reason In A Glorious Humanity.