I Wear The Chains I Forged In

Of Little Worth As Life Is When We Misuse It, It Is Worth That Effort. It Would Cost Nothing To Lay Down If It Were Not.

An Unfinished Coffin On Black Tressels, Which Stood In The Middle Of The Shop, Looked So Gloomy And Death-like That A Cold Tremble Came Over Him, Every Time His Eyes Wandered In The Direction Of The Dismal Object: From Which He Almost Expected To See Some Frightful Form Slowly Rear Its Head, To Drive Him Mad With Terror.

He Was Consious Of A Thousand Odours Floating In The Air, Each One Connected With A Thousand Thoughts, And Hopes, And Joys, And Cares, Long, Long, Forgotten.

I Only Ask To Be Free. The Butterflies Are Free.

Around And Around The House The Leaves Fall Thick, But Never Fast, For They Come Circling Down With A Dead Lightness That Is Sombre And Slow.