I Wish To Say What I Think

It Is Not The Irregular Hours Or Irregular Diet That Makes The Romantic Life.

Happy Is The House That Shelters A Friend.

Who Leaves The Pine-tree, Leaves His Friend, Unnerves His Strength, Invites His End.

The Resources Of The Scholar Are Proportioned To His Confidence In The Attributes Of The Intellect.

The Leaves Are Falling, Falling As From Way Off, As Though Far Gardens Withered In The Skies; They Are Falling With Denying Gestures. And In The Nights The Heavy Earth Is Falling From All The Stars Down Into Loneliness. We All Are Falling. This Hand Falls. And Look At Others: It Is In Them All. And Yet There Is One Who Holds This Falling Endlessly Gently In His Hands.