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.]

Death is that "Tomorrow" for which all our lives are spent waiting!Man is constantly building the "Image."It is an Edifice read more

Death is that "Tomorrow" for which all our lives are spent waiting!Man is constantly building the "Image."It is an Edifice for the entombment of bones!Best to "Realize" the temporal nature of thingsand simply "Do and Die!

Belief in our mortality, the sense that we are eventually going to crack up and be extinguished like the flame read more

Belief in our mortality, the sense that we are eventually going to crack up and be extinguished like the flame of a candle, I say, is a gloriously fine thing. It makes us sober; it makes us a little sad; and many of us it makes poetic. But above all,

Death is that "Tomorrow" for which all our lives are spent waiting!Man is constantly building the "Image."It is an Edifice read more

Death is that "Tomorrow" for which all our lives are spent waiting!Man is constantly building the "Image."It is an Edifice for the entombment of bones!Best to "Realize" the temporal nature of thingsand simply "Do and Die!1973

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.

Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:--
We are as they;
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Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:--
We are as they;
Like them we fade away
As doth a leaf.

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

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.

That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
read more

That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust.