For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay,

Death Is A Sleep That Ends Our Dreaming. Oh, That We May Be Allowed To Wake Before Death Wakes Us.

While Life Is In Your Body, You Have The Rein Of All Thoughts In Your Hands.

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.

The Greater I Am, The Greater Shall Be My Efforts.