And I Live On, But In Grief

Books Can Warm The Heart With Friendly Words And Counsel, Entering Into A Close Relationship With Us Which Is Articulate And Alive

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is Nothing Sweet Which Does Not Presently End In Bitterness.

All Pleasure In The World Is A Passing Dream.

To Be Able To Say How Much Love, Is Love But Little.