In my thoughts

We have certain work to do for our bread and butter, and that is to be done strenuously; other work to do for our delight and happiness, and that is to be done heartily: neither is to be done in halves and shifts, but with a will and passion; and what is not worth this effort is not to be done at all. Perhaps all that we have to do is meant for nothing more than an exercise of the heart and of the will, and is useless in itself. There is dreaming enough, and earthiness enough, and sensuality enough in human existence itself, without our turning the few glowing moments of it into mechanism and banality and repetition; and since our life must at the best be but an ephemeral vapour nay the condensation on a cold window – here one minute gone the next – let our existence therefore atleast appear as a star in the height of Heaven and not as the thick darkness that broods over the rolling hills, in the depths of an English winter.

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