THE lost days of my life until to-day.
What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food, but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?
I do not see them here; but after death
God knows I know the faces I shall see,
Each one a murder’d self, with low last breath.
“I am thyself,—what hast thou done to me?”
“And I—and I—thyself,” (Lo! each one saith,)
“And thou thyself to all eternity!”
C. D. Gabriel Rossetti
LET each day take thought for what concerns it, liquidate its own affairs, and respect the day which is to follow, and then we shall be always ready. To know how to be ready is at bottom to know how to die.
Henri F. Amiel
TIME is scytheless and toothless; it is we who gnaw like the worm; we who smite like the scythe. It is ourselves who abolish, ourselves who consume; we are the mildew and the flame, and the soul of man is to its own work as the moth that frets when it cannot fly, and as the hidden flame that blasts where it cannot illumine.