I Am Not A Nervous Man In

And Now Let Us Love And Take That Which Is Given Us, And Be Happy; For In The Grave There Is No Love And No Warmth, Nor Any Touching Of The Lips. Nothing Perchance, Or Perchance But Bitter Memories Of What Might Have Been.

Thinking Can Only Serve To Measure Out The Helplessness Of Thought.

The Food That Memory Gives To Eat Is Bitter To The Taste, And It Is Only With The Teeth Of Hope That We Can Bear To Bite It.

I Am Not A Nervous Man In A General Way, And Very Little Troubled With Superstitions, Of Which I Have Lived To See The Folly.

We May Taste Of Every Turn Of Chance - Now Rule As Kings, Now Serve As Slaves; Now Love, Now Hate; Now Prosper, And Now Perish. But Still, Through All, We Are The Same; For This Is The Marvel Of Identity.