Poetry is the mother-tongue of the human race.
The farther reason looks the greater is the haze in which it loses itself.
What good to me is the festive garment of freedom when I am in a slave's smock at home?
All human wisdom works and has worries and grief as reward.
The product of paper and printed ink, that we commonly call the book, is one of the great visible mediators between spirit and time, and, reflecting zeitgeist, lasts as long as ore and stone.