I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

I worked with patience which means almost power.

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

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm.