How Idiotic Civilization Is! Why Be Given

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.

I Think I Hate Snow, Downright Hate It. There Is Something Stupefying In It, A Kind Of 'you Must Be Worse Before You're Better,' And Down It Spins.

What I Feel For You Can’t Be Conveyed In Phrasal Combinations; It Either Screams Out Loud Or Stays Painfully Silent But I Promise — It Beats Words. It Beats Worlds. I Promise

What Happiness It Is To Listen To Rain At Night; Joyful Relief, Ease; A Lapping-round And Hushing And Brooding Tenderness, All Are Mingled Together In The Sound Of The Fast-falling Rain. God, Looking Down Upon The Rainy Earth, Sees How Faint Are These Lights Shining In Little Windows, - How Easily Put Out.

Everything In Life That We Really Accept Undergoes A Change.