O foolish anxiety of wretched man, how inconclusive are the arguments which make thee beat thy wings below!

In judgement be ye not too confident, Even as a man who will appraise his corn When standing in a field, ere it is ripe.

Midway upon the journey of our life

Here let dead poetry rise once more to life.

In His will, our peace.

Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state, perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and here were every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams--the nectar of which poets sing.

I made my own house be my gallows.