I Feel An Army In My Fist.

It Is At The Approach Of Extreme Danger When A Hollow Puppet Can Accomplish Nothing, That Power Falls Into The Mighty Hands Of Nature, Of The Spirit Giant-born, Who Listens Only To Himself, And Knows Nothing Of Compacts.

When The Measured Dance Of The Hours Brings Back The Happy Smile Of Spring, The Buried Dead Is Born Again In The Life-glance Of The Sun. The Germs Which Perished To The Eye Within The Cold Breast Of The Earth Spring Up With Joy In The Bright Realm Of Day.

Love Is Only Known By Him Who Hopelessly Persists In Love.

Great Souls Suffer In Silence.

The Painter Is, As To The Execution Of His Work, A Mechanic; But As To His Conception And Spirit And Design He Is Hardly Below Even The Poet.