In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.

If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.

God is the perfect poet.

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!

How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!

Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.

At last awake from life, that insane dream we take for waking now.