And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high; And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
Freedom is a new religion, the religion of our time.
You should only attempt to borrow from those who have but few of this world’s goods, as their chests are not of iron, and they are, besides, anxious to appear wealthier than they really are.
Literary history is the great morgue where all seek the dead ones whom they love, or to whom they are related.
Thought precedes action as lighting does thunder.
In the marvelous month of May when all the buds were bursting, then in my heart did love arise. In the marvelous month of May when all the birds were singing, then did I reveal to her my yearning and longing.
The people have no ear, either for rhythm or music, and their unnatural passion for pianoforte playing and singing is thus all the more repulsive. There is nothing on earth more terrible than English music, except English painting.
The swan in the pool is singing, And up and down doth he steer, And, singing gently ever, Dips under the water clear.
In vain would I seek to discover Why sad and mournful am I, My thoughts without ceasing brood over A tale of the time gone by.
The spring’s already at the gate With looks my care beguiling; The country round appeareth straight A flower-garden smiling.
All special charters of freedom must be abrogated where the universal law of freedom is to flourish.
Life is all too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully bewildered; it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity...
Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
All our contemporary philosophers perhaps without knowing it are looking through eyeglasses that Baruch Spinoza polished. Spinoza was a philosopher who earned his livelihood by grinding lenses.
No compass has ever been invented for the high seas of matrimony.
As the moon’s fair image quaketh In the raging waves of ocean, Whilst she, in the vault of heaven, Moves with silent peaceful motion.
The nightingale appear’d the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.
The air grows cool and darkles, The Rhine flows calmly on; The mountain summit sparkles In the light of the setting sun.
From every Englishman emanates a kind of gas, the deadly choke-damp of boredom.