It Is Not Easy To Walk Alone

I Have A Heart To Be Stabbed In Or Shot In, I Have No Doubt, And, Of Course, If It Ceased To Beat, I Would Cease To Be. But You Know What I Mean. I Have No Softness There, No—sympathy—sentiment—nonsense.

Such Is The Influence Which The Condition Of Our Own Thoughts, Exercises, Even Over The Appearance Of External Objects. Men Who Look On Nature, And Their Fellow-men, And Cry That All Is Dark And Gloomy, Are In The Right; But The Sombre Colours Are Reflections From Their Own Jaundiced Eyes And Hearts. The Real Hues Are Delicate, And Need A Clearer Vision.

Old Time, That Greatest And Longest Established Spinner Of All!... His Factory Is A Secret Place, His Work Is Noiseless, And His Hands Are Mutes.

The Night Was Dark, And A Cold Wind Blew, Driving The Clouds, Furiously And Fast, Before It. There Was One Black, Gloomy Mass That Seemed To Follow Him: Not Hurrying In The Wild Chase With The Others, But Lingering Sullenly Behind, And Gliding Darkly And Stealthily On. He Often Looked Back At This, And, More Than Once, Stopped To Let It Pass Over; But, Somehow, When He Went Forward Again, It Was Still Behind Him, Coming Mournfully And Slowly Up, Like A Shadowy Funeral Train.

Yet, I Had Nothing Else To Tell; Unless, Indeed, I Were To Confess (which Might Be Of Less Moment Still), That No One Can Ever Believe This Narrative, In The Reading, More Than I Believed It In The Writing.