Of Writing Many Books There Is No

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless; That Only Men Incredulous Of Despair, Half-taught In Anguish, Through The Midnight Air Beat Upward To God's Throne In Loud Access Of Shrieking And Reproach

The Charm, One Might Say The Genius, Of Memory Is That It Is Choosy, Chancy And Temperamental.

The Soul Hath Snatched Up Mine All Faint And Weak,and Placed It By Thee On A Golden Throne,-- And That I Love (o Soul, We Must Be Meek!)is By Thee Only, Whom I Love Alone.

I Love You For The Part Of Me That You Bring Out.

Gaze Up At The Stars Knowing That I See The Same Sky And Wish The Same Sweet Dreams.