Thought is invisible nature.

A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.

The butterfly long loved the beautiful rose, And flirted around all day; While round him in turn with her golden caress, Soft fluttered the sun's warm ray.... I know not with whom the rose was in love, But I know that I loved them all. The butterfly, rose, and the sun's bright ray, The star and the bird's sweet call.

At first I was almost about to despair, I thought I never could bear it — but I did I bear it. The question remains: how?

It is only kindred griefs that draw forth our tears, and each weeps really for himself.

Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.

He only profits from praise who values criticism.