The Feel Of Not To Feel It,

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

Can Death Be Sleep, When Life Is But A Dream, And Scenes Of Bliss Pass As A Phantom By? ---"on Death

How Sad It Is When A Luxurious Imagination Is Obliged In Self Defense To Deaden Its Delicacy In Vulgarity, And Riot In Things Attainable That It May Not Have Leisure To Go Mad After Things That Are Not.

Love In A Hut, With Water And A Crust, Is - Love, Forgive Us! - Cinders, Ashes, Dust.

Some Say The World Is A Vale Of Tears, I Say It Is A Place Of Soul-making.