That which is so universal as death must be a benefit.
Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.
Eternity gives nothing back of what one leaves out of the minutes.
Only the soldier is a free man, because he can look death in the face.
When the measured dance of the hours brings back the happy smile of spring, the buried dead is born again in the life-glance of the sun. The germs which perished to the eye within the cold breast of the earth spring up with joy in the bright realm of day.
Art is the right hand of Nature.