I Could Wish There Were A God,

I Am The Mother That Bore You, And Your Sorrow Is My Agony; And If You Don't Hate Her, I Do' Then, Mother, You Make Me Love Her More. She Is Unjustly Treated By You, And I Must Make The Balance Even.

If They Came Sorrowing, And Wanting Sympathy In A Complicated Trouble Like The Present, Then They Would Be Felt As A Shadow In All These Houses Of Intimate Acquaintances, Not Friends

She Lay Down And Never Stirred. To Move Hand Or Foot, Or Even So Much As One Finger, Would Have Been An Exertion Beyond The Powers Of Either Volition Or Motion. She Was So Tired, So Stunned, That She Thought She Never Slept At All; Her Feverish Thoughts Passed And Repassed The Boundary Between Sleeping And Waking, And Kept Their Own Miserable Identity.

There Was A Filmy Veil Of Soft Dull Mist Obscuring, But Not Hiding, All Objects, Giving Them A Lilac Hue, For The Sun Had Not Yet Fully Set; A Robin Was Singing ... The Leaves Were More Gorgeous Than Ever; The First Touch Of Frost Would Lay Them All Low To The Ground. Already One Or Two Kept Constantly Floating Down, Amber And Golden In The Low Slanting Sun-rays.

I'll Not Listen To Reason... Reason Always Means What Someone Else Has Got To Say.