Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.

They live that they may eat, but he himself [Socrates] eats that he may live.

This strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims.

With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return All we have built as we discern.

We are here on earth to do good to others. What the others are here for, I do not know.

Saw life steadily and saw it whole.