One Can't Get Over The Habit Of

It Is A Strange Thing To Read A Letter After The Writer Is Dead - A Bitter-sweet Thing, In Which Pain And Comfort Are Strangely Mingled.

I'm So Glad I Live In A World Where There Are Octobers.

Despair Is A Free Man--hope Is A Slave.

I'm Sure I Shall Always Feel Like A Child In The Wood.

Have You Ever Noticed How Many Silences There Are Gilbert? The Silence Of The Woods....of The Shore....of The Meadows....of The Night....of The Summer Afternoon. All Different Because The Undertones That Thread Them Are Different.