Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.

Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers, or wings, it is, for that reason, to be of no account?

Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.

The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the cleare we should see through it. -Jean Paul.

We spend our time envying people whom we wouldn't wish to be.

Good actions ennoble us, we are the sons of our own deeds.