The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

Love that endures, from life that disappears!

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

May the good God pardon all good men.