Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed or cease to woo.

The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.

A man who will not leave his room because he does not know how, or is afraid to open the door, is trapped just the same whether or not the door is locked.

Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.