Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.
What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough; for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.
In this treacherous world Nothing is the truth nor a lie. Everything depends on the color Of the crystal through which one sees it
When love is not madness, it is not love.
Light-enchanted sunflower, thou
Who gazest ever true and tender
On the sun's revolving splendour.
Restless sunflower; cease to move.
No windows give a better view than those a man brings with him in his head, not asking for tickets of admission, since at all functions, festivals, or feasts he looks out with the same nice self-composure.
For even in dreams a good deed is not lost.
Even in dreams doing good is not wasted.
How surely a knowledge of the world hardens the heart!
The heart is an astrologer that always divines the truth.
For man's greatest crime is to have been born.
Our treasures trifles seem, and all our life is dreaming, and the dreams themselves are dreams.
Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confess An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; -Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin In missing each that salutory rein Of reason, and the grinding will of man.
Tis not where we lie but whence we fell; the loss of Heaven's the greatest pain in Hell.
But whether it be dream or truth, to do well is what matters. If it be truth, for truth's sake. If not, then to gain friends for the time when we awaken.
All life is a dream, and all dreams are dreams.
Speak no evil of women; I tell thee the meanest of them deserves respect; for of women do we not all come?
At the point when affection is not frenzy, it is not adore.
These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.
One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.
The dower of great beauty has always been misfortune, since happiness and beauty do not agree together.
What law, what reason can deny that gift so sweet, so natural that God has given a stream, a fish, a beast, a bird?
And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death
A friar who asks alms for God's sake begs for two.
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