Oh, What Lies There Are In Kisses.

From Every Englishman Emanates A Kind Of Gas, The Deadly Choke-damp Of Boredom.

Music Is A Strange Thing. I Would Almost Say It Is A Miracle. For It Stands Halfway Between Thought And Phenomenon, Between Spirit And Matter.

While We Are Indifferent To Our Good Qualities, We Keep On Deceiving Ourselves In Regard To Our Faults, Until We Come To Look On Them As Virtues.

At Dresden On The Elbe, That Handsome City, Where Straw Hats, Verses, And Cigars Are Made, They've Built (it Well May Make Us Feel Afraid,) A Music Club And Music Warehouse Pretty.

The Great Pulsation Of Nature Beats Too In My Breast, And When I Carol Aloud, I Am Answered By A Thousand-fold Echo. I Hear A Thousand Nightingales. Spring Hath Sent Them To Awaken Earth From Her Morning Slumber, And Earth Trembles With Ecstasy, Her Flowers Are Hymns, Which She Sings In Inspiration To The Sun.