There is a middle ground in things.

I hate the irreverent rabble and keep them far from me.

I have lived: tomorrow the Father may fill the sky with black clouds or with cloudless sunshine.

Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.

Who then is sane? He who is not a fool.

Few cross the river of time and are able to reach non-being. Most of them run up and down only on this side of the river. But those who when they know the law follow the path of the law, they shall reach the other shore and go beyond the realm of death.

In a long work sleep may be naturally expected.