Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

Life Isn't All Beer And Skittles; Few Of Us Have Touched A Skittle In Years.

Earth Does Not Understand Her Child, Who From The Loud Gregarious Town Returns, Depleted And Defiled, To The Still Woods, To Fling Him Down.

Love Is Not All: It Is Not Meat Nor Drink Nor Slumber Nor A Roof Against The Rain; Nor Yet A Floating Spar To Men That Sink And Rise And Sink And Rise And Sink Again; Love Can Not Fill The Thickened Lung With Breath, Nor Clean The Blood, Nor Set The Fractured Bone; Yet Many A Man Is Making Friends With Death Even As I Speak, For Lack Of Love Alone.

There Is No God. But It Does Not Matter. Man Is Enough.