When his hand ceased to tremble, and became a dead plant with that golden flower, I felt the beginning of a farewell rise in me like a sob.

But there are too many of them for one to mourn them all.

How many of them are there on all this plain?
How many, how many of them are there in all this moment?
Our heart is only made for one heart at a time.

It wears us out to look at all.

One may say, "There are the others," but it is only a saying.