From every Englishman emanates a kind of gas, the deadly choke-damp of boredom.

The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.

A pine tree standeth lonely In the North on an upland bare; It standeth whitely shrouded With snow, and sleepeth there. It dreameth of a Palm tree Which far in the East alone, In the mournful silence standeth On its ridge of burning stone.

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

I do not know the meaning of my sadness; there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.

I do not murmur, even if my heart break.

First, I thought, almost despairing, This must crush my spirit now; Yet I bore it, and am bearing- Only do not ask me how.