Reach What You Cannot

Man Hurries, God Does Not. That Is Why Man's Works Are Uncertain And Maimed, While God's Are Flawless And Sure. My Eyes Welling With Tears, I Vowed Never To Transgress This Eternal Law Again. Like A Tree I Would Be Blasted By Wind, Struck By Sun And Rain, And Would Wait With Confidence; The Long-desired Hour Of Flowering And Fruit Would Come.

It Was Certainly Not This Mummified And Outrageously Painted Old Woman He Was Seeing Before Him, But The Entire "female Species," As It Was His Custom To Call Women. The Individual Disappeared, The Features Were Obliterated, Whether Young Or Senile, Beautiful Or Ugly - Those Were Mere Unimportant Variations. Behind Each Woman Rises The Austere, Sacred And Mysterious Face Of Aphrodite.

Fools, Art Is A Heavy Task, More Heavy Than Gold Crowns; It's Far More Difficult To Match Firm Words Than Armies, They're Disciplined Troops, Unconquered, To Be Placed In Rhythm, The Mind's Most Mighty Foe, And Not Disperse In Air. I'd Give, Believe Me, A Whole Land For One Good Song, For I Know Well That Only Words, That Words Alone, Like The High Mountains, Have No Fear Of Age Or Death.

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

Two Equally Steep And Bold Paths May Lead To The Same Peak. To Act As If Death Did Not Exist, Or To Act Thinking Every Minute Of Death, Is Perhaps The Same Thing.