This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.
Mount and begone. The world awaits you.
For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless.
Why break the heart that never beat from love?
Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.
For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.