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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children

Progress, under whose feet the grass mourns and the forest turns into paper from which newspaper plants grow, has subordinated the purpose of life to the means of subsistence and turned us into the nuts and bolts for our tools

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the mind of man

Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer

If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all

Marriage brings one into fatal connection with custom and tradition, and traditions and customs are like the wind and weather, alltogether incalculable