When a rose dies, a thorn is left behind.
Time itself flows on with constant motion, just like a river: for no more than a river can the fleeting hour stand still. As wave is driven on by wave, and, itself pursued, pursues the one before, so the moments of time at once flee and follow, and are ever new.
Thus all things altered. Nothing dies. And here and there the unbodied spirit flies.
Time is the devourer of all things.
Minds that are ill at ease are agitated by both hope and fear.
He, who is not prepared today, will be less so tomorrow.