You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never Rises from the soul, and sways The heart of every single hearer, With deepest power, in simple ways. You’ll sit forever, gluing things together, Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps, Blowing on a miserable fire, Made from your heap of dying ash. Let apes and children praise your art, If their admiration’s to your taste, But you’ll never speak from heart to heart, Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.

The human race is a monotonous affair. Most people spend the greatest part of their time working in order to live, and what little freedom remains so fills them with fear that they seek out any and every means to be rid of it.

In praising or loving a child, we love and praise not that which is, but that which we hope for.

Patriotism corrupts history.

Time is a strange thing. It is a whimsical tyrant, which in every century has a different face for all that one says and does.

The artist alone sees spirits. But after he has told of their appearing to him, everybody sees them.

Let us seek to fathom those things that are fathomable and reserve those things which are unfathomable for reverence in quietude.