Many Things Are Too Delicate To Be

To Know A Truth Well, One Must Have Fought It Out.

We Are Near Awakening When We Dream That We Dream.

Most Observers Of The French Revolution, Especially The Clever And Noble Ones, Have Explained It As A Life-threatening And Contagious Illness. They Have Remained Standing With The Symptoms And Have Interpreted These In Manifold And Contrary Ways. Some Have Regarded It As A Merely Local Ill. The Most Ingenious Opponents Have Pressed For Castration. They Well Noticed That This Alleged Illness Is Nothing Other Than The Crisis Of Beginning Puberty.

Everything At A Distance Turns Into Poetry; Distant Mountains, Distant People, Distant Events; All Become Romantic.

It Is Not Merely The Multiplicity Of Tints, The Gladness Of Tone, Or The Balminess Of The Air Which Delight In The Spring; It Is The Still Consecrated Spirit Of Hope, The Prophecy Of Happy Days Yet To Come; The Endless Variety Of Nature, With Presentiments Of Eternal Flowers Which Never Shall Fade, And Sympathy With The Blessedness Of The Ever-developing World.