Romanticism Is Beauty Without Bounds-the Beautiful Infinite.

For No One Does Life Drag More Disagreeably Than For Those Who Try To Speed It Up.

Nations And Men Are Only The Best When They Are The Gladdest, And Deserve Heaven When They Enjoy It.

Two Aged Men, That Had Been Foes For Life, Met By A Grave, And Wept - And In Those Tears They Washed Away The Memory Of Their Strife; Then Wept Again The Loss Of All Those Years.

Because The Heart Beats Under A Covering Of Hair, Of Fur, Feathers, Or Wings, It Is, For That Reason, To Be Of No Account?

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.