From the midst of the very fountain of pleasure, something of bitterness arises to vex us in the flower of enjoyment.

Whenever anything changes and quits its proper limits, this change is at once the death of that which was before.

From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.

No single thing abides; but all things flow. Fragment to fragment clings - the things thus grow Until we know them and name them. By degrees They melt, and are no more the things we know.

It is pleasant, when the sea is high and the winds are dashing the waves about, to watch from the shores the struggles of another.

Pleasant it to behold great encounters of warfare arrayed over the plains, with no part of yours in peril.

... we in the light sometimes fear what is no more to be feared than the things children in the dark hold in terror and imagine will come true.