The crumbling castle, looming among the mists, exhaled the season, and every cold stone breathed it out. The tortured trees by the dark lake burned and dripped, their leaves snatched by the wind were whirled in wild circles through the towers. The clouds mouldered as they lay coiled, or shifted themselves uneasily upon the stone skyfield, sending up wreathes that drifted through the turrets and swarmed up hidden walls.

He saw in happiness the seeds of independence, and in independence the seeds of revolt.

For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.

The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.

Why break the heart that never beat from love?