One Is Least Sure Of One's Self,

Death Is Never An Ending, Death Is A Change; Death Is Beautiful, For Death Is Strange; Death Is One Dream Out Of Another Flowing.

Poetry Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know.

Music I Heard With You Was More Than Music, And Bread I Broke With You Was More Than Bread. Now That I Am Without You, All Is Desolate, All That Was Once So Beautiful Is Dead. Your Hands Once Touched This Table And This Silver,and I Have Seen Your Fingers Hold This Glass. These Things Do Not Remember You, Beloved: And Yet Your Touch Upon Them Will Not Pass. For It Was In My Heart You Moved Among Them,and Blessed Them With Your Hands And With Your Eyes.and In My Heart They Will Remember Always: They Knew You Once, O Beautiful And Wise!

[at A Musical Concert:] . . . The Music's Pure Algebra Of Enchantment.

The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!