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

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

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

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

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.

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