Art Is The Daughter Of Freedom.

Have Hope. Though Clouds Environs Now, And Gladness Hides Her Face In Scorn, Put Thou The Shadow From Thy Brow, - No Night But Hath Its Morn.

The World's History Is Constant, Like The Laws Of Nature, And Simple, Like The Souls Of Men. The Same Conditions Continually Produce The Same Results.

Everlastingly Chained To A Single Little Fragment Of The Whole, Man Himself Develops Into Nothing But A Fragment; Everlastingly In His Ear The Monotonous Sound Of The Wheel That He Turns, He Never Develops The Harmony Of His Being, And Instead Of Putting The Stamp Of Humanity Upon His Own Nature, He Becomes Nothing More Than The Imprint Of His Occupation Or Of His Specialized Knowledge.

The Lamp Of Genius Burns Quicker Than The Lamp Of Life.

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