We grow like flowers, and bear desire, the odor of the human flowers.

Silence is the speech of love, The music of the spheres above.

We love in others what we lack ourselves, and would be everything but what we are.

Given the books of a man, it is not difficult, I think, to detect therein the personality of the man, and the station in life to which he was born.

There is no death-the thing that we call death Is but another, sadder name for life, Which is itself an insufficient name, Faint recognition of that unknown life- That Power whose shadow is the Universe.

We grow like flowers, and bear desire, the odor of the human flowers.

There is no hope the future will but turn the old sand in the falling glass of time.