Door of passage to the other side$$$ the soul frees itself in stride.
Whiles in the early Winter eve <br>We pass amid the gathering night <br>Some homestead that we had to leave <br>Years past; and see its candles bright <br>Shine in the room beside the door <br>Where we were merry years agone <br>But now must never enter more$$$ <br>As still the dark road drives us on.
If a chap can't compose an epic poem while he's weaving tapestry$$$ he had better shut up$$$ he'll never do any good at all.
...my boredom might be described as a malady affecting external objects and consisting of a withering process; an almost instantaneous loss of vitality--just as though one saw a flower change in a few seconds from a bud to decay and dust.
Come o'er the sea$$$<br>Maiden with me$$$<br>Mine through the sunshine$$$ storms and snows;<br>Seasons may roll$$$<br>But the true soul<br>Burns the same$$$ where'er it goes.
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to kill. There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof.
Blessed are they who expect nothing for they shall not be disappointed.
Truth exists$$$ only lies have to be invented.
Graces were never yet given to any one man.
All passions that allow themselves to be savored and digested are only mediocre.