The Trouble Is Small, The Fun Is

One's Roused By This, Another Finds That Fit: Each Loves The Play For What He Brings To It.

Battle Not With Monsters, For Then You Become One.

Man Errs, Till He Has Ceased To Strive.

This World Could Not Exist If It Were Not So Simple. The Ground Has Been Tilled A Thousand Years, Yet Its Powers Remain Ever The Same; A Little Rain, A Little Sun, And Each Spring It Grows Green Again.

Modern Poets Mix Too Much Water With Their Ink. [ger., Neuere Poeten Thun Viel Wasser In Die Tinte.]