After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, read more

After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.

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.

This is the spot where I am mortal.
[Ger., Hier ist die Stelle wo ich sterblich bin.]

This is the spot where I am mortal.
[Ger., Hier ist die Stelle wo ich sterblich bin.]

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

Life in a box is better than no life at all ... I expect.

Life in a box is better than no life at all ... I expect.

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.

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.

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.

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.