O Pusillanimous Heart, Be Comforted And, Like

Life, Struck Sharp On Death, Makes Awful Lightning.

My Love For Him Was So Exquisitely Pure That If We All Were Capable Of Giving And Receiving Such A Beautiful Gift The World Would Be A Far More Brilliant Place; I Think We'd All Be Poets.

Unless You Can Feel When The Song Is Done No Other Is Sweet In Its Rhythm; Unless You Can Feel When Left By One That All Men Else Go With Him.

What Frightens Me Is That Men Are Content With What Is Not Life At All.

Folded Eyes See Brighter Colors Than The Open Ever Do.