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The immortal could we cease to contemplate,
The mortal part suggests its every trait.
God laid His read more
The immortal could we cease to contemplate,
The mortal part suggests its every trait.
God laid His fingers on the ivories
Of her pure members as on smoothed keys,
And there out-breathed her spirit's harmonies.
Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:--
We are as they;
read more
Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:--
We are as they;
Like them we fade away
As doth a leaf.
Death is that "Tomorrow" for which all our lives are spent waiting!Man is constantly building the "Image."It is an Edifice read more
Death is that "Tomorrow" for which all our lives are spent waiting!Man is constantly building the "Image."It is an Edifice for the entombment of bones!Best to "Realize" the temporal nature of thingsand simply "Do and Die!1973
Cats are magical. . .the more you pet them the longer you both live.
Cats are magical. . .the more you pet them the longer you both live.
Belief in our mortality, the sense that we are eventually going to crack up and be extinguished like the flame read more
Belief in our mortality, the sense that we are eventually going to crack up and be extinguished like the flame of a candle, I say, is a gloriously fine thing. It makes us sober; it makes us a little sad; and many of us it makes poetic. But above all,
To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no
less are thoughts of mortality read more
To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no
less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul.
How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a
brief sojourn; for what read more
How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a
brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses
it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that
one exists for other people.
When the game is over, the king and the pawn go into the same box
When the game is over, the king and the pawn go into the same box
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool,
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, read more
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool,
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve,
In all the magnanimity of thought;
Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal,
All men think all men mortal but themselves.