What's old collapses, times change, And new life blossoms in the ruins.
Without a home must the soldier go, a changeful wanderer, and can warm himself at no home-lit hearth.
We, we live! ours are the hours, and the living have their claims.
Historians are prophets with their face turned backward.
Only through Beauty's morning-gate, dost thou penetrate the land of knowledge.
It hinders the creative work of the mind if the intellect examines too closely the ideas as they pour in.