I Count Only The Hours That Are

Most Creatures Have A Vague Belief That A Very Precarious Hazard, A Kind Of Transparent Membrane, Divides Death From Love; And That The Profound Idea Of Nature Demands That The Giver Of Life Should Die At The Moment Of Giving.

Brave Old-flowers! Wall-flowers, Gilly Flowers, Stocks! For Even As The Field-flowers, From Which A Trifle, A Ray Of Beauty, A Drop Of Perfume, Divides Them, They Have Charming Names, The Softest In The Language; And Each Of Them, Like Tiny, Art-less Ex-votos, Or Like Medals Bestowed By The Gratitude Of Men, Proudly Bears Three Or Four.

The Truth That Seems Discouraging Does In Reality Only Transform The Courage Of Those Strong Enough To Accept It; And, In Any Event, A Truth That Disheartens, Because It Is True, Is Still Of Far More Value Than The Most Stimulating Of Falsehoods.

He Who Sees Without Loving Is Only Straining His Eyes In The Darkness.

It Is Far More Important That One's Life Should Be Perceived Than That It Should Be Transformed; For No Sooner Has It Been Perceived, Than It Transforms Itself Of Its Own Accord.