And here, poor fool, with all my lore I stand no wiser than before.

A person is never happy till their vague strivings has itself marked out its proper limitations.

There is nothing outside of us that is not at the same time in us, and as the external world has its colors the eye, too, has colors.

All lyrical work must, as a whole, be perfectly intelligible, but in some particulars a little unintelligible.

What is the path? There is no path. On into the unknown.

I was oppressed with the sensations I then felt; I sunk under the weight of them.

Nature goes her own way, and all that to us seems an exception is really according to order.