Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.

You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.