Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.

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

Where words cease, there music begins.

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

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...

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

The sea appears all golden. Beneath the sun-lit sky.