God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts - like a Chinese nest of boxes - oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front - in our ancestors, back and back until.
What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
A lost but happy dream may shed its light upon our waking hours, and the whole day may be infected with the gloom of a dreary or sorrowful one; yet of neither may we be able to recover a trace.