Life and Existence

Just as we outgrow a pair of trousers, we outgrow acquaintances, libraries, principles, etc., at times before they’re worn out and at times—and this is the worst of all—before we have new ones.

All of one’s contemporaries and aging friends are living in a delicate balance, and one feels that one’s own consciousness is no longer as brightly lit as it once was. But then, twilight with its more subdued colors has its charms as well.

The true paradises are the paradises that we have lost.

Time is our tedious song should here have ending.

And suddenly the memory revealed itself.

Beauty is no quality in things themselves. It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them.

It is better to be seventy years young than forty years old!

In every parting there is an image of death.

‘God bless us every one!’ said Tiny Tim.

The times they are a-changin’.

my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees.

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love; It is enough, the freight should be Proportioned to the groove.

This day Time winds th’ exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth’s length again.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

It was the winter wild While the Heav’n-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.

Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing.

When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.

I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. The uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than memory; or else to abide the Doom of Men.

 

I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. The uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than memory; or else to abide the Doom of Men.

 

“I will take the Ring,” he said, “though I do not know the way.”

 

The Road goes ever on and on