Twelve Dancings Are Dancing, And Taking No

Graves They Say Are Warm'd By Glory; Foolish Words And Empty Story.

I Am No Longer A Divine Biped. I Am No Longer The Freest German After Goethe, As Ruge Named Me In Healthier Days. I Am No Longer The Great Hero No. 2, Who Was Compared With The Grape-crowned Dionysius, Whilst My Colleague No. 1 Enjoyed The Title Of A Grand Ducal Weimarian Jupiter. I Am No Longer A Joyous, Somewhat Corpulent Hellenist, Laughing Cheerfully Down Upon The Melancholy Nazarenes. I Am Now A Poor Fatally-ill Jew, An Emaciated Picture Of Woe, An Unhappy Man.

I Consider It A Degradation And A Stain On My Honor To Submit To Baptism In Order To Qualify Myself For State Employment In Prussia.

A Lonely Fir-tree Is Standing On A Northern Barren Height; It Sleeps, And The Ice And Snow-drift Cast Round It A Garment Of White.

In Politics, As In Life, We Must Above All Things Wish Only For The Attainable.