Knowledge By Suffering Entereth, And Life Is

Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless.

My Patience Has Dreadful Chilblains From Standing So Long On A Monument.

Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As Cold And Flat As Graveyard Stones.