All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

Who mocks at music mocks at love.

One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.

What can I but enumerate old themes?

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.