Nations Have Their Ego, Just Like Individuals.

His Heart Danced Upon Her Movement Like A Cork Upon A Tide.

Every Age Must Look For Its Sanction To Its Poetry And Philosophy, For In These The Human Mind, As It Looks Backward Or Forward, Attains To An Eternal State.

Her Name Sprang To My Lips At Moments In Strange Prayers And Praises Which I Myself Did Not Understand. My Eyes Were Often Full Of Tears (i Could Not Tell Why) And At Times A Flood From My Heart Seemed To Pour Itself Out Into My Bosom. I Thought Little Of The Future. I Did Not Know Whether I Would Ever Speak To Her Or Not Or, If I Spoke To Her, How I Could Tell Her Of My Confused Adoration.

As I Am. As I Am. All Or Not At All.

The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.