Weep, For The Light Is Dead.

To The Fool-king Belongs The World.

O Tender Yearning, Sweet Hoping! The Golden Time Of First Love! The Eye Sees The Open Heaven, The Heart Is Intoxicated With Bliss; O That The Beautiful Time Of Young Love Could Remain Green Forever.

There Are Evil Spirits Who Suddenly Fix Their Abode In Man's Unguarded Breast, Causing Us To Commit Devilish Deeds, And Then, Hurrying Back To Their Native Hell, Leave Behind The Stings Of Remorse In The Poisoned Bosom.

O Jealousy! Thou Magnifier Of Trifles.

The Voice Of Our Age Seems By No Means Favorable To Art, At All Events To That Kind Of Art To Which My Inquiry Is Directed. The Course Of Events Has Given A Direction To The Genius Of The Time That Threatens To Remove It Continually Further From The Ideal Of Art. For Art Has To Leave Reality, It Has To Raise Itself Bodily Above Necessity And Neediness; For Art Is The Daughter Of Freedom, And It Requires Its Prescriptions And Rules To Be Furnished By The Necessity Of Spirits And Not By That Of Matter.