Thought is the thought of thought.

As you are now so once were we.

My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory.

Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good.

If he had smiled why would he have smiled? To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.