Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?
The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it.
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