The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To

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

The Happiness Of Life Consists, Like The Day, Not In Single Flashes (of Light), But In One Continuous Mild Serenity. The Most Beautiful Period Of The Heart's Existence Is In This Calm Equable Light, Even Although It Be Only Moonshine Or Twilight. Now The Mind Alone Can Obtain For Us This Heavenly Cheerfulness And Peace.

As A Man Grows Older It Is Harder And Harder To Frighten Him.

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.

There Are So Many Tender And Holy Emotions Flying About In Our Inward World, Which, Like Angels, Can Never Assume The Body Of An Outward Act; So Many Rich And Lovely Flowers Spring Up Which Bear No Seed, That It Is A Happiness Poetry Was Invented, Which Receives Into Its Limbs All These Incorporeal Spirits, And The Perfume Of All These Flowers.