Perfumes are the feelings of flowers, and as the human heart, imagining itself alone and unwatched, feels most deeply in the night-time, so seems it as if the flowers, in musing modesty, await the mantling eventide ere they give themselves up wholly to feeling...

The beauteous dragonfly's dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing; She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair. Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body's bright splendour, And also her figure so slender...

Where words cease, there music begins.

The foolish race of mankind are swarming below in the night; they shriek and rage and quarrel - and all of them are right.

There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.

Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.

My heart resembles the ocean; has storm, and ebb and flow; and many a beautiful pearl lies hid in its depths below.