The Darkness Of Death Is Like The

Recollection Is The Only Paradise From Which We Cannot Be Turned Out.

Because The Heart Beats Under A Covering Of Hair, Of Fur, Feathers, Or Wings, It Is, For That Reason, To Be Of No Account?

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.

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

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than Cheerfulness In An Old Face.