Whatever Tears One May Shed, In The

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.

Phychical Pain Is More Easily Borne Than Physical; And If I Had My Choice Between A Bad Conscience And A Bad Tooth, I Should Choose The Former.

The Stones Here Speak To Me, And I Know Their Mute Language. Also, They Seem Deeply To Feel What I Think. So A Broken Column Of The Old Roman Times, An Old Tower Of Lombardy, A Weather- Beaten Gothic Piece Of A Pillar Understands Me Well. But I Am A Ruin Myself, Wandering Among Ruins.

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers, And As The Human Heart, Imagining Itself Alone And Unwatched, Feels Most Deeply In The Night-time, So Seems It As If The Flowers, In Musing Modesty, Await The Mantling Eventide Ere They Give Themselves Up Wholly To Feeling...

Whenever Books Are Burned, Men Also In The End Are Burned.