A Dreamer, I Walked Enchanted, And Nothing

Sometimes It’s A Sort Of Indulgence To Think The Worst Of Ourselves. We Say, ‘now I Have Reached The Bottom Of The Pit, Now I Can Fall No Further,’ And It Is Almost A Pleasure To Wallow In The Darkness. The Trouble Is, It’s Not True. There Is No End To The Evil In Ourselves, Just As There Is No End To The Good. It’s A Matter Of Choice. We Struggle To Climb, Or We Struggle To Fall. The Thing Is To Discover Which Way We’re Going.

Life Was A Series Of Greetings And Farewells, One Was Always Saying Good-bye To Something, To Someone.

I Thought Of All Those Heroines Of Fiction Who Looked Pretty When They Cried, And What A Contrast I Must Make With A Blotched And Swollen Face, And Red Rims To My Eyes.

Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

I Am Glad It Cannot Happen Twice, The Fever Of First Love. For It Is A Fever, And A Burden, Too, Whatever The Poets May Say.