Books Can Warm The Heart With Friendly

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

You Keep To Your Own Ways And Leave Mine To Me.

To Begin With Myself, Then, The Utterances Of Men Concerning Me Will Differ Widely, Since In Passing Judgment Almost Every One Is Influenced Not So Much By Truth As By Preference, And Good And Evil Report Alike Know No Bounds.

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

I Freeze And Burn, Love Is Bitter And Sweet, My Sighs Are Tempests And My Tears Are Floods, I Am In Ecstasy And Agony, I Am Possessed By Memories Of Her And I Am In Exile From Myself.