Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ.
The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
Our sweetest hopes rise blooming. And then again are gone, They bloom and fade alternate, And so it goes rolling on. I know it, and it troubles My life, my love, my rest, My heart is wise and witty, And it bleeds within my breast.
A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
The fountain of love is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove.
Life is all too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully bewildered; it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity.