What reason, like the careful ant, draws laboriously together, the wind of accident sometimes collects in a moment.
Vast, colossal destiny, which raises man to fame, though it may also grind him to powder!
Measure not by the scale of perfection the meager product of reality.
The very plants turn with a joyful transport to the light.
In the ardor of pursuit men soon forget the goal from which they start.
Sentimental poetry differs from naive poetry in that it relates the real state at which the latter stops to ideas and applies ideas to that reality.