To Be Able To Say How Much

Books Can Warm The Heart With Friendly Words And Counsel, Entering Into A Close Relationship With Us Which Is Articulate And Alive

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is Nothing Sweet Which Does Not Presently End In Bitterness.

Hope Is Incredible To The Slave Of Grief.

Suspicion Is The Cancer Of Friendship.