Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.

Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.

Our difficulties of the moment must always be dealt with somehow, but our permanent difficulties are difficulties of every moment.

Old men ought to be explorers.

Time past and time future allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time.

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices in the lost lilac and the lost sea voices and the weak spirit quickens to rebel for the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell quickens to recover.