Barbarism Recommences By The Excess Of Civilization.

Inspiration Is Solitary, Never Consecutive.

Sentiment Is The Poetry Of The Imagination.

Shall Not This Bygone Eden That We Knew In Our Eternal Life Have Shape And Hue? For Where Time Is Not Shall Not All Time Be? In That Calm Breast Whereto Our Souls Are Cleaving Shall We Not Find Our Loved Ones Beyond Grieving About The Hearth-stone Of Eternity?

Music Is The Literature Of The Heart; It Commences Where Speech Ends.

Man, It Seems, Is Not Able To Bear The Languid Rest On Nature's Bosom, And When The Trumpet Sounds The Signal Of Danger, He Hastens To Join His Comrades, No Matter What The Cause That Calls Him To Arms. He Rushes Into The Thickest Of The Fight, And Amid The Uproar Of The Battle Regains Confidence In Himself And His Powers.