I Tired Of The Routine Of Eight

I Tired Of The Routine Of Eight Years In One Afternoon.

My Fine Visions Are All Very Well, But I Must Not Forget They Are Absolutely Unreal. I Have A Rosy Sky And A Green Flowery Eden In My Brain; But Without, I Am Perfectly Aware, Lies At My Feet A Rough Tract To Travel, And Around Me Gather Black Tempests To Encounter.

You Ask Rather Too Many Questions. I Have Given You Answers Enough For The Present: Now I Want To Read.

This Is A Terrible Hour, But It Is Often That Darkest Point Which Precedes The Rise Of Day; That Turn Of The Year When The Icy January Wind Carries Over The Waste At Once The Dirge Of Departing Winter, And The Prophecy Of Coming Spring.

It Would Not Be Wicked To Love Me." "it Would To Obey You.