If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun.
Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.
Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales; Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.