All’s well with thee if thou art in just hands.
Words? I tell you not to write me letters; I command you. Is it not enough to want you so in vain, but you send me what evokes you here before me — this paper, all along whose lines your hand has lain?
Love’s the little leaven that works the whole world glad.
I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth, as I seek for a path through space.
I bought the sweetness with this pain.
There is nothing so entirely desirable in all the world as a few hours oblivion.
I do not wish to grow old, to outlive my illusions. Only a short respite from cares and sorrow, a brief time of flowers, and music, and love, and laughter, and ecstatic tears.
I meant to write a song of battle, for storied deeds of war inspire; I seemed to hear the cannon thunder, I seemed to see the smoke and fire. But oh, the pathos of the ending when brave men conquered in the fight, knelt, kissing yielded blood-stained colors!–my eyes are blurred, I cannot write.