Books Have Led Some To Learning And

Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

I Rejoiced In My Progress, Mourned My Weaknesses, And Commiserated The Universal Instability Of Human Conduct.

To Be Able To Say How Much Love, Is Love But Little.

When The Poet Died His Cat Was Put To Death And Mummified.

My Flowery And Green Age Was Passing Away, And I Feeling A Chill In The Fires Had Been Wasting My Heart, For I Was Drawing Near The Hillside Above The Grave.