When The Poet Died His Cat Was

Books Come At My Call And Return When I Desire Them; They Are Never Out Of Humor And They Answer All My Questions With Readiness. Some Present In Review Before Me The Events Of Past Ages; Others Reveal To Me The Secrets Of Nature. These Teach Me How To Live, And Those How To Die; These Dispel My Melancholy By Their Mirth, And Amuse Me By Their Sallies Of Wit. Some There Are Who Prepare My Soul To Suffer Everything, To Desire Nothing, And To Become Thoroughly Acquainted With Itself. In A Word, They Open The Door To All The Arts And Sciences.

To Begin With Myself, Then, The Utterances Of Men Concerning Me Will Differ Widely, Since In Passing Judgment Almost Every One Is Influenced Not So Much By Truth As By Preference, And Good And Evil Report Alike Know No Bounds.

In My Younger Days I Struggled Constantly With An Overwhelming But Pure Love Affair - My Only One, And I Would Have Struggled With It Longer Had Not Premature Death, Bitter But Salutary For Me, Extinguished The Cooling Flames. I Certainly Wish I Could Say That I Have Always Been Entirely Free From Desires Of The Flesh, But I Would Be Lying If I Did.

There Is No Lighter Burden, Nor More Agreeable, Than A Pen.

Hitherto Your Eyes Have Been Darkened And You Have Looked Too Much, Yes, Far Too Much, Upon The Things Of Earth. If These So Much Delight You What Shall Be Your Rapture When You Lift Your Gaze To Things Eternal!