Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.

Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.

Every period of time is a sphinx that throws itself into the abyss as soon as its riddle has been solved.

All special charters of freedom must be abrogated where the universal law of freedom is to flourish.

Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain; - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full; Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.

If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.

Man,--the aristocrat amongst the animals.