To-day Is Always Different From Yesterday.

Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature Has To Hide, And She Hides It Well.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem Of May.

Seated In My Library At Night, And Looking On The Silent Faces Of My Books, I Am Occasionally Visited By A Strange Sense Of The Supernatural.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.