The World Resembles A Stage On Which

When All Hopes Of Recognition Or Honor Have Faded Into Distant Memory, When Purity Of Heart Meets Sorrow Of Mind, When All The World Seems To Walk In Blindness And Yet A Man Works Without Wearying For That Which He Loves...only In This Moment Is Passion Truly Understood

Our Castle Is Not Imposing, But Is Well Built, And Surrounded By A Very Fine Garden. I Live In The Bailiff's House.

One Bites Into The Brass Mouthpiece Of His Wooden Cudgel, And The Other Blows His Cheeks Out On A French Horn. Do You Call That Art?

When I Wished To Sing Of Love, It Turned To Sorrow. And When I Wished To Sing Of Sorrow, It Was Transformed For Me Into Love.

I Never Force Myself To Be Devout Except When I Feel So Inspired, And Never Compose Hymns Of Prayers Unless I Feel Within Me Real And True Devotion.