Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise.
There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.