OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle light...I love thee with the breath,smiles,t ears,of all my life.

Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.