The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.

O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet, Thou Art Strange!

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

But The Child's Sob Curses Deeper In The Silence Than The Strong Man In His Wrath!

Whoso Loves, Believes In The Impossible