Love Is Like The Measles. The Older

It Wasn't His, It Wasn't My Fault, We Both Had Nothing Except Patience, But Death Has None. I Saw Him Come (how Meanly!) And I Watched Him As He Took And Took: None Of It I Could Claim As Mine.

I Have Patience For Centuries In Me And Will Live As Though My Time Were Very Big.

There Are Quite A Number Of People In The Reading-room; But One Is Not Aware Of Them. They Are Inside The Books. They Move, Sometimes, Within The Pages Like Sleepers Turning Over Between Two Dreams. Ah, How Good It Is To Be Among People Who Are Reading.

Is Not Impermanence The Very Fragrance Of Our Days?

I Am Much Too Alone In This World, Yet Not Alone Enough