Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Bells are musics laughter.