It Would Be Necessary That

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.

I Speak With The Eternal Through The Instrument Of Nature, Through The World's History: I Read The Soul Of The Artist In His Apollo.

Without A Home Must The Soldier Go, A Changeful Wanderer, And Can Warm Himself At No Home-lit Hearth.

It Is Easy To Give Advice From A Port Of Safety.

Many A Smiling Face Hides A Mourning Heart; But Grief Alone Teaches Us What We Are.