Thoughts Are Tyrants That Return Again And

I Gave Him My Heart, And He Took And Pinched It To Death; And Flung It Back To Me.

Nonsense, Do You Imagine He Has Thought As Much Of You As You Have Of Him?

Wish And Learn To Smooth Away The Surly Wrinkles, To Raise Your Lids Frankly, And Change The Fiends To Confident, Innocent Angels, Suspecting And Doubting Nothing, And Always Seeing Friends Where They Are Not Sure Of Foes.

But There's This One Difference: One Is Gold Put To The Use Of Paving-stones, And The Other Is Tin Polished To Ape A Service Of Silver. Mine Has Nothing Valuable About It; Yet I Shall Have The Merit Of Making It Go As Far As Such Poor Stuff Can Go. His Had First-rate Qualities, And They Are Lost, Rendered Worst Than Unavailing.

I Cannot Express It: But Surely You And Everybody Have A Notion That There Is, Or Should Be, An Existence Of Yours Beyond You.