Weep, For The Light Is Dead.

That Which Is So Universal As Death Must Be A Benefit.

Even Now, Nature Is The Only Flame, On Which The Poetic Spirit Feeds; From It Alone It Draws All Its Power, To It Alone It Speaks Even In The Artificial, In The Man Engaged In Culture.

Cowards Have Done Good And Kind Actions, But A Coward Never Pardoned.

Time Consecrates; And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Doch Zittre Vor Der Langsamen, Der Stillen Macht Der Zeit. Yet Tremble At The Slow, Silent Power Of Time.