I think that, from a biological standpoint, human life almost reads like a poem. It has its own rhythm and beat, its internal cy

I think that, from a biological standpoint, human life almost reads like a poem. It has its own rhythm and beat, its internal cycles of growth and(26)decay. It begins with innocent childhood, followed by awkward(27)adolescence trying awkwardly to adapt itself to mature society, with its young passions, its ideals and(28)ambitions; then it reaches a manhood of intense activities, profiting from experience and learning more about society and human nature; at middle age, there is a(29)maturing of character like the ripening of fruit, and the gradual acquiring of a more tolerant and at the same time a kindlier view of life; then in the sunset of our life, our body(30)decreases its activities. It is for us the age of peace and security and leisure and(31)contentment; finally, life ends and one goes into(32)eternal sleep, never to wake up again.
One should be able to sense the beauty of this(33)rhythm of life, to appreciate, as we do in grand symphonies, its main theme, its strains of conflict and the final resolution. The movements of these cycles are very much the same in a normal life, but the music must be provided by the(34)individual himself.
    No one can say that life with childhood, manhood and old age is not a beautiful arrangement; the day has its morning, noon and sunset, and the year has its seasons, and it is good that it is so. There is no good or bad in life, except what is good(35)according to its own season.