Of these years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have advanced and only grown older.

While the river of life glides along smoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bank seems to change.

Whoever knows it also knows that in love there is no More and no Less; but that he who loves can only love with the whole heart, and with the whole soul; with all his strength and with all his will.

And then when all around grows dark, when we feel utterly alone, when all men right and left pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling rises in the breast.

Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is.

Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts.