The Air Grows Cool And

Each Violet Peeps From Its Dwelling To Gaze At The Bright Stars Above.

The Artist Is The Child In The Popular Fable, Every One Of Whose Tears Was A Pearl.

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.

Whatever Tears One May Shed, In The End One Always Blows One's Nose.

Lo, Sleep Is Good, Better Is Death--in Sooth The Best Of All Were Never To Be Born.