"hope To The Last!" Said Newman, Clapping

Day Was Breaking At Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. Stars Were Yet Visible, But There Was Dull Light In The East That Was Not The Light Of Night. The Moon Had Gone Down, And A Mist Crept Along The Banks Of The River, Seen Through Which The Trees Were The Ghosts Of Trees, And The Water Was The Ghost Of Water. This Earth Looked Spectral, And So Did The Pale Stars: While The Cold Eastern Glare, Expressionless As To Heat Or Colour, With The Eye Of The Firmament Quenched, Might Have Been Likened To The Stare Of The Dead.

I Do Not Know The American Gentleman, God Forgive Me For Putting Two Such Words Together.

On The Eve Of Long Voyages Or An Absence Of Many Years, Friends Who Are Tenderly Attached Will Seperate With The Usual Look, The Usual Pressure Of The Hand, Planning One Final Interview For The Morrow, While Each Well Knows That It Is But A Poor Feint To Save The Pain Of Uttering That One Word, And The Meeting Will Never Be. Should Possibilities Be Worse To Bear Than Certainties?

There Was A Long Hard Time When I Kept Far From Me The Remembrance Of What I Had Thrown Away When I Was Quite Ignorant Of Its Worth.

There Was No Wind; There Was No Passing Shadow On The Deep Shade Of The Night; There Was No Noise. The City Lay Behind Him, Lighted Here And There, And Starry Worlds Were Hidden By The Masonry Of Spire And Roof That Hardly Made Out Any Shapes Against The Sky. Dark And Lonely Distance Lay Around Him Everywhere, And The Clocks Were Faintly Striking Two.