The threshold is the place of expectation.
Colors are the deeds/ and sufferings of light.
My poor head is in such a whirl, my mind is all in bits.
This is the true measure of love, When we believe that we alone can love, That no one could ever have loved so before us, And that no one will ever love in the same way after us.
To make converts is the natural ambition of everyone.
Our destiny often looks like a fruit-tree in winter. Who would think from its pitiable aspect that those rigid boughs, those rough twigs could next spring again be green, bloom, and even bear fruit? Yet we hope it, we know it.