Terrible As Is War, It

Wherever They Burn Books They Will Also, In The End, Burn Human Beings.

Twelve Dancings Are Dancing, And Taking No Rest, And Closely Their Hands Together Are Press'd; And Soon As A Dance Has Come To A Close, Another Begins, And Each Merrily Goes.

The Portuguese, Dutch And English Have Been For A Long Time Year After Year, Shipping Home The Treasures Of India In Their Big Vessels. We Germans Have Been All Along Been Left To Watch It. Germany Would Do Likewise, But Hers Would Be Treasures Of Spiritual Knowledge.

Sleep Is Lovely, Death Is Better Still, Not To Have Been Born Is Of Course The Miracle.

Our Sweetest Hopes Rise Blooming. And Then Again Are Gone, They Bloom And Fade Alternate, And So It Goes Rolling On. I Know It, And It Troubles My Life, My Love, My Rest, My Heart Is Wise And Witty, And It Bleeds Within My Breast.