The Dead Keep Their Secrets, And In

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

In My Garden I Spend My Days; In My Library I Spend My Nights.

Books Are A Finer World Within The World. (1863)

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.