My own passion, all my life, has been non-collecting.
Idleness, simon-pure, from which all manner of good springs like seed from a fallow soil, is sure to be misnamed and misconstrued.
Life is a breathing-space between two eternities, a holiday with appalling realities behind and before.
[Death:] The one inexorable thing!
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away.
The fears of what may come to pass, I cast them all away, Among the clover scented grass, Among the new-mown hay.