I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism

A Feeling Of Sadness And Longing, That Is Not Akin To Pain, And Resembles Sorrow Only As The Mist Resembles The Rain.

And When The Echoes Had Ceased, Like A Sense Of Pain Was The Silence.

O Ye Dead Poets, Who Are Living Still Immortal In Your Verse, Though Life Be Fled, And Ye, O Living Poets, Who Are Dead Though Ye Are Living, If Neglect Can Kill, Tell Me If In The Darkest Hours Of Ill, With Drops Of Anguish Falling Fast And Red From The Sharp Crown Of Thorns Upon Your Head, Ye Were Not Glad Your Errand To Fulfill?

The Holiest Of Holidays Are Those Kept By Ourselves In Silence And Apart; The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

Give What You Have. To Some One, It May Be Better Than You Dare To Think.