Ah! The Seasons Of Love Roll Not

The Purer The Golden Vessel, The More Readily Is It Bent; The Higher Worth Of Woman Is Sooner Lost Than That Of Man.

A Variety Of Nothing Is Superior To A Monotony Of Something.

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

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.

It Is Not The End Of Joy That Makes Old Age So Sad, But The End Of Hope.