The weight that hangs upon our eyelids - is of lead.

Oh, if I could put some of my reckless spirit into these discreet cautious lazy men!

Darkest of all Decembers ever has my life known, Sitting here by the embers, stunned, helpless, alone.

I do not allow myself vain regrets or foreboding.

There is no slave, after all, like a wife...Poor women, poor slaves All married women, all children and girls who live in their father's house are slaves.

Is the sea drying up? It is going up into mist and coming down on us in this water spout, the rain. It raineth every day, and the weather represents our tearful despair on a large scale.

I do not write often now - not for want of something to say, but from a loathing of all I see and hear. Why dwell upon it?