Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.

Love that endures, from life that disappears!

Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

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.