As Freely As The Firmament Embraces The

O That It Might Remain Eternally Green, The Beautiful Time Of Youthful Love.

No Doubt The Artist Is The Child Of His Time; But Woe To Him If He Is Also Its Disciple, Or Even Its Favorite.

Everlastingly Chained To A Single Little Fragment Of The Whole, Man Himself Develops Into Nothing But A Fragment; Everlastingly In His Ear The Monotonous Sound Of The Wheel That He Turns, He Never Develops The Harmony Of His Being, And Instead Of Putting The Stamp Of Humanity Upon His Own Nature, He Becomes Nothing More Than The Imprint Of His Occupation Or Of His Specialized Knowledge.

Time Flies On Restless Pinions - Constant Never.

Satisfied If They Themselves Can Escape From The Hard Labour Of Thought, They Willingly Abandon To Others The Guardianship Of Their Thoughts.