Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.

Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

We love and understand talent; we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.

ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.