Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.
In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.
The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings.
Friends are flowers in life's garden.
Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.
Fain would we remain barbarians, if our claim to civilization were to be based on the gruesome glory of war.