How Alike Are The Groans Of Love

How Shall The Murdered Man Convince His Assassin He Will Not Haunt Him.

How Alike Are The Groans Of Love To Those Of The Dying.

There Was No Mistaking, Even In The Uncertain Light, The Hand, Half Crabbed, Half Generous, And Wholly Drunken, Of The Consul Himself, The Greek E's, The Flying Buttresses Of D's, The T's Like Lonely Wayside Crosses Save Where They Crucified An Entire Word.

God, How Pointless And Empty The World Is! Days Filled With Cheap And Tarnished Moments Succeed Each Other, Restless And Haunted Nights Follow In Bitter Routine: The Sun Shines Without Brightness, And The Moon Rises Without Light. My Heart Has The Taste Of Ashes, And My Throat Is Tight And Weary With Weeping. What Is A Lost Soul? It Is One That Has Turned From Its True Path And Is Groping In The Darkness Of Remembered Ways—

I Like Prefaces. I Read Them. Sometimes I Do Not Read Any Further.