He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.

The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.

Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.

Tenors get women by the score.

There's no friends like the old friends.