All writing is a form of prayer.
A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.
What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu