Our life dreams the Utopia. Our death achieves the Ideal.

It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live.

The need of the immaterial is the most deeply rooted of all needs. One must have bread; but before bread, one must have the ideal.

And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste Shall others continue, but never complete. For none upon earth can achieve his scheme; The best as the worst are futile here: We wake at the self-same point of the dream,-- All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.

The ode lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama upon the real.

The ideal and the beautiful are identical; the ideal corresponds to the idea, and beauty to form; hence idea and substance are cognate.