There Is An Angel Imprisoned In It

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

You Must Know That I Am, Of All Men Who Were Ever Born, The Most Inclined To Love Persons. Whenever I Behold Someone Who Possesses Any Talent Or Displays Any Dexterity Of Mind, Who Can Do Or Say Something More Appropriately Than The Rest Of The World, I Am Compelled To Fall In Love With Him; And Then I Give Myself Up To Him So Entirely That I Am No Longer My Own Property, But Wholly His.

I Live And Love In God's Peculiar Light.

The Greatest Danger For Most Of Us Is Not That Our Aim Is Too High And We Miss It, But That It Is Too Low And We Reach It.

No Thought Is Born In Me That Does Not Bear The Image Of Death.