Life Is A Flower Of Which Love

All Who Suffer Are Full Of Hatred; All Who Live Drag A Remorse: The Dead Alone Have Broken Their Chains.

Who Then Understands The Reciprocal Flux And Reflux Of The Infinitely Great And The Infinitely Small, The Echoing Of Causes In The Abysses Of Being, And The Avalanches Of Creation?

The Drama Is Complete Poetry. The Ode And The Epic Contain It Only In Germ; It Contains Both Of Them In A State Of High Development, And Epitomizes Both.

That Is The Explanation Of War, An Outrage By Humanity Upon Humanity In Despite Of Humanity.

Thus, During Those Nineteen Years Of Torture And Slavery, Did This Soul Rise And Fall At The Same Time. Light Entered On The One Side, And Darkness On The Other.