Art Is Indeed Not The Bread But

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.

Every Friend Is To The Other A Sun, And A Sunflower Also. He Attracts And Follows.

What A Father Says To His Children Is Not Heard By The World, But It Will Be Heard By Posterity.

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.

For No One Does Life Drag More Disagreeably Than For Those Who Try To Speed It Up.