Those Who Begin By Burning Books Will

The Nightingale Appear'd The First, And As Her Melody She Sang, The Apple Into Blossom Burst, To Life The Grass And Violets Sprang.

With The Rose The Butterfly's Deep In Love, A Thousand Times Hovering Round; But Round Himself, All Tender Like Gold, The Sun's Sweet Ray Is Hovering Found.

As The Moon's Fair Image Quaketh In The Raging Waves Of Ocean, Whilst She, In The Vault Of Heaven, Moves With Silent Peaceful Motion.

Out Of My Own Great Woe I Make My Little Songs.

That Was Only The Beginning - Where One Burns Books, One Will Finally Also Burn People.