Then Stars Arise, And The

The First Pressure Of Sorrow Crushes Out From Our Hearts The Best Wine; Afterwards The Constant Weight Of It Brings Forth Bitterness, The Taste And Stain From The Lees Of The Vat.

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

Death Is Better Than Disease.

Your Education Begins Where What Is Called Your Education Is Over. Your Fate Is But The Common Lot Of All.