Mistress-like, Its Brilliance Vain, Highly Capricious And

My Whole Life Has Been Pledged To This Meeting With You.

Ballet Is A Dance Executed By The Human Soul.

'tis Time, My Friend, 'tis Time! For Rest The Heart Is Aching; Days Follow Days In Flight, And Every Day Is Taking, Fragments Of Being, While Together You And I, Make Plans To Live. Look, All Is Dust, And We Shall Die.

Sad That Our Finest Aspiration, Our Freshest Dreams And Meditations, In Swift Succession Should Decay, Like Autumn Leaves That Rot Away.

There Yet Remains But One Concluding Tale, And Then This Chronicle Of Mine Is Ended - Fulfilled, The Duty God Ordained To Me, A Sinner. Not Without Purpose Did The Lord, Put Me To Witness Much For Many Years, And Educate Me In The Love Of Books. One Day Some Indefatigable Monk, Will Find My Conscientious, Unsigned Work; Like Me, He Will Light Up His Ikon-lamp, And, Shaking From The Scroll The Age-old Dust, He Will Transcribe These Tales In All Their Truth.