I Desire That Death Find Me Ready

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

From Thought To Thought, From Mountain Peak To Mountain. Love Leads Me On; For I Can Never Still My Trouble On The World's Well Beaten Ways.

Gold, Silver, Jewels, Purple Garments, Houses Built Of Marble, Groomed Estates, Pious Paintings, Caparisoned Steeds, And Other Things Of This Kind Offer A Mutable And Superficial Pleasure; Books Give Delight To The Very Marrow Of One's Bones. They Speak To Us, Consult With Us, And Join With Us In A Living And Intense Intimacy.

Reality Is Always The Foe Of Famous Names.

It May Be Only Glory That We Seek Here, But I Persuade Myself That, As Long As We Remain Here, That Is Right. Another Glory Awaits Us In Heaven And He Who Reaches There Will Not Wish Even To Think Of Earthly Fame.