It Is Those Books Which A Man

He Does Not Weep Who Does Not See.

Let Us Say It Now: To Be Blind And To Be Loved, Is Indeed, Upon This Earth Where Nothing Is Complete, One Of The Most Strangely Exquisite Forms Of Happiness.

The Owl Goes Not Into The Nest Of The Lark.

Winter Is On My Head, But Eternal Spring Is In My Heart; I Breathe At This Hour The Fragrance Of The Lilacs, The Violets, And The Roses, As At Twenty Years Ago.

And The Dream That Our Mind Had Sketched In Haste Shall Others Continue, But Never Complete. For None Upon Earth Can Achieve His Scheme; The Best As The Worst Are Futile Here: We Wake At The Self-same Point Of The Dream, All Is Here Begun, And Finished Elsewhere.