Kindle The Taper Like The Steadfast Star

I Am Never Going To Write For The Sake Of Writing.

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.

I Seem To Have Always One Little Window Looking But Into Life.

Life's Sharpest Rapture Is Surcease Of Pain.

Until We Are All Free, We Are None Of Us Free.