Let Us Love The Passing

He, Who Can Create, Abhors Destruction.

Sad Is His Lot, Who, Once At Least In His Life, Has Not Been A Poet.

There Are Places And Climates, Seasons And Hours, With Their Outward Circumstance, So Much In Harmony With Certain Impressions Of The Heart, That Nature And The Soul Of Man Appear To Be Parts Of One Vast Whole.

Let Us Love The Passing Hour, Let Us Hurry Up And Enjoy Our Time.

Private Passions Tire And Exhaust Themselves, Public Ones Never.