To Be Able To Say How Much

Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

Books Come At My Call And Return When I Desire Them; They Are Never Out Of Humor And They Answer All My Questions With Readiness. Some Present In Review Before Me The Events Of Past Ages; Others Reveal To Me The Secrets Of Nature. These Teach Me How To Live, And Those How To Die; These Dispel My Melancholy By Their Mirth, And Amuse Me By Their Sallies Of Wit. Some There Are Who Prepare My Soul To Suffer Everything, To Desire Nothing, And To Become Thoroughly Acquainted With Itself. In A Word, They Open The Door To All The Arts And Sciences.

He Loves But Lightly Who His Love Can Tell.

The Time Will Come When Every Change Shall Cease, This Quick Revolving Wheel Shall Rest In Peace: No Summer Then Shall Glow, Not Winter Freeze; Nothing Shall Be To Come, And Nothing Past, But An Eternal Now Shall Ever Last.

Perhaps Out There, Somewhere, Someone Is Sighing For Your Absence; And With This Thought, My Soul Begins To Breathe.