Death Grows Friendlier As We Grow Older.

I Have Really Done So Few Bad Things That They Have To Keep Harping On The Old Ones [.]

The Night Was Clear And Frosty, All Ebony Of Shadow And Silver Of Snowy Slope; Big Stars Were Shining Over The Silent Fields; Here And There The Dark Pointed Firs Stood Up With Snow Powdering Their Branches And The Wind Whistling Through Them.

…always Felt The Pain Of Her Friends So Keenly That She Could Not Speak Easy, Fluent Words Of Comforting. Besides, She Remembered How Well-meant Speeches Had Hurt Her In Her Own Sorrow And Was Afraid.

My Pen Shall Heal, Not Hurt.

Hark, I Hear A Robin Calling! List, The Wind Is From The South! And The Orchard-bloom Is Falling Sweet As Kisses On The Mouth. In The Dreamy Vale Of Beeches Fair And Faint Is Woven Mist, And The River's Orient Reaches Are The Palest Amethyst. Every Limpid Brook Is Singing Of The Lure Of April Days; Every Piney Glen Is Ringing With The Maddest Roundelays. Come And Let Us Seek Together Springtime Lore Of Daffodils, Giving To The Golden Weather Greeting On The Sun-warm Hills.