Man, living, feeling man, is the easy sport of the over-mastering present.
Worthless is the nation that does not gladly stake its all on its honor.
Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing.
It would be necessary that they should be already sages to love wisdom...
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.
I feel that I am a man of destiny.