What Is Life? A Madness. What Is

Light-enchanted Sunflower, Thou Who Gazest Ever True And Tender On The Sun's Revolving Splendour.

One May Know How To Gain A Victory, And Know Not How To Use It.

These Flowers, Which Were Splendid And Sprightly, Waking In The Dawn Of The Morning, In The Evening Will Be A Pitiful Frivolity, Sleeping In The Cold Night's Arms.

And Yet, And Yet, In These Our Ghostly Lives, Half Night, Half Day, Half Sleeping, Half Awake, How If Our Waking Life, Like That Of Sleep, Be All A Dream In That Eternal Life To Which We Wake Not Till We Sleep In Death

At The Point When Affection Is Not Frenzy, It Is Not Adore.