Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree was ridged inch deep with pearl.
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how.
A weed is no more than a flower in disguise.
Sorrow is the great idealizer.
In the scale of the destinies, brawn will never weigh so mach as brain.