Humanity Is Never So Beautiful As When

Our Birthdays Are Feathers In The Broad Wing Of Time.

The Darkness Of Death Is Like The Evening Twilight; It Makes All Objects Appear More Lovely To The Dying.

Nations And Men Are Only The Best When They Are The Gladdest, And Deserve Heaven When They Enjoy It.

In Women Everything Is Heart, Even The Head.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.