The English Have A Scornful Insular Way

For 'tis Not In Mere Death That Men Die Most.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours From My Life.

Death Forerunneth Love To Win "sweetest Eyes Were Ever Seen."

Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.