All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

I Am Tired, Beloved, Of Chafing My Heart Against The Want Of You; Of Squeezing It Into Little Inkdrops, And Posting It.

My Words Are Little Jars For You To Take And Put Upon A Shelf. Their Shapes Are Quaint And Beautiful, And They Have Many Pleasant Colours And Lustres To Recommend Them. Also The Scent From Them Fills The Room With Sweetness Of Flowers And Crushed Grasses.

A Man Must Be Sacrificed Now And Again To Provide For The Next Generation Of Men.

Love Is A Game-yes? I Think It Is A Drowning.