Come My Little One, And Give Me

The Flowers Of Life Are But Visionary. How Many Pass Away And Leave No Trace Behind! How Few Yield Any Fruit,--and The Fruit Itself, How Rarely Does It Ripen! And Yet There Are Flowers Enough; And Is It Not Strange, My Friend, That We Should Suffer The Little That Does Really Ripen To Rot, Decay, And Perish Unenjoyed?

Ah! My Poor Brain Is Racked And Crazed, My Spirit And Senses Amazed!

Superstition Is A Part Of The Very Being Of Humanity; And When We Fancy That We Are Banishing It Altogether, It Takes Refuge In The Strangest Nooks And Corners, And Then Suddenly Comes Forth Again, As Soon As It Believes Itself At All Safe.

At The End Of Life Thoughts Hitherto Impossible Come To The Collected Mind, Like Good Spirits Which Let Themselves Down From The Shining Heights Of The Past.

All Sects Seem To Me To Be Right In What They Assert, And Wrong In What They Deny.