Wan Night, The Shadow Goer, Came Stepping

Worthy Books Are Not Companions – They Are Solitudes: We Lose Ourselves In Them And All Our Cares.

Error Is Worse Than Ignorance.

I Cannot Love As I Have Loved, And Yet I Know Not Why; It Is The One Great Woe Of Life To Feel All Feeling Die.

The Death-change Comes. Death Is Another Life. We Bow Our Heads At Going Out, We Think, And Enter Straight Another Golden Chamber Of The King's Larger Than This We Leave, And Lovelier. And Then In Shadowy Glimpses, Disconnect, The Story, Flower-like, Closes Thus Its Leaves. The Will Of God Is All In All. He Makes, Destroys, Remakes, For His Own Pleasure, All.

For As Nightingales Do Upon Glow-worms Feed, So Poets Live Upon The Living Light.