Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Talent perceives differences; genius, unity.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.