I Make Presents To The Mother But

Everything That Frees Our Spirit Without Giving Us Control Of Ourselves Is Ruinous.

Tell Me, How Do You Cope So Calmly With Crazy Youth's Arrogant Way? Indeed, Youth Would Be Insufferable, Had I Myself Not Also Been Insufferable.

I Nothing Had, And Yet Enough For Youth--joy In Illusion, Ardent Thirst For Truth. Give Unrestrained, The Old Emotion, The Bliss That Touched The Verge Of Pain, The Strength Of Hate, Love's Deep Devotion,--o, Give Me Back My Youth Again!

With Knowledge Grows Doubt.

The Brilliant Passes, Like The Dew At Morn; The True Endures, For Ages Yet Unborn.