A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume...
I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.
For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
