With So Many Thousand Joys, Is It

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.

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.

Sorrows Gather Around Great Souls As Storms Do Around Mountains; But, Like Them, They Break The Storm And Purify The Air Of The Plain Beneath Them.

In Women Everything Is Heart, Even The Head.