Who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concretic layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society. . . may unexpectedly come forth. . . to enjoy its perfect summer life at last!. . . Such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. . . Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
This life is a gift, and to reject that gift or abuse that gift is not human and not worthy of us.