This melancholy London- I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.