Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Words alone are certain good.

When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.

Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.