The Ramparts Of Vienna Are Crumbling Into

At Certain Times, Men Regard Poetry Merely As A Bright Flame, But To Women It Was, And Always Will Be, A Warm Fire.

Perhaps The Most Embarrassing Experience Is Being Caught At A Lie By A Simpleton Who Sneers At Our Asinine Cleverness.

Bunglers And Pedants Judge Art According To Genre; They Approve Of This And Dismiss That Genre, But Instead Of Genres, The Open-minded Connoisseur Appreciates Only Individual Works.

In Early Times, Before The Floods Swept Across The World, There Was Life, Albeit Odd, As One Can See From The Fossils Of Mammoth Bones, And There Was The Regime Of Prince Metternich.

The Manifestation Of Poetry In External Life Is Formal Perfection. True Sentiment Grows Within, And Art Must Represent Internal Phenomena Externally.