Beauty and love pass, I know... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the… - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses

I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses —

The shadow of a dove Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings; And down the valley through the crying trees
The body of the darker storm flies; brings With its new air the breath of sunken seas And slender tenuous thunder . . . But I wait . . . Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain — Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate, Happier winds that pile her hair; Again They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air Upon me, winds that I know, and storm.

Often people display a curious respect for a man drunk, rather like the respect of simple races for the insane. Respect rather than fear. There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions, who will do anything. Of course we make him pay afterward for his moment of superiority, his moment of impressiveness.

Once we were one person, and always it will be a little that way.