But Questioning Does Not Mean The End

But To Write - That Is Grief And Labor; And To Read What One Has Written - How Unlike The Story As One Saw It; How Dull, How Spirtless - That Is Enough To Send One Weeping To Bed.

Nature Is Not Silent, And Never Was A Name More Derisively Inappropriate Than When We Speak Of These Non-human Creatures Who Hoot And Crow And Bray As The Dumb Animals.

What With The Reviews Of Critics, The Sarcasms Of One's Friends, The Reproaches Of One's Own Taste, There's Precious Little Peace After Publishing A Book.

The Ruder Lecturers Are, And The Louder Their Voices, The More Converts They Make To Their Opinions.

I Find You In All Small And Lovely Things; In The Little Fishes Like Flames In The Green Water, In The Furred And Stupid Softness Of Bumble-bees Fat As Laughter, In All The Chiming Radiance Of Warmth And Light And Scent In The Summer Garden.