A Single Soul Is Richer

I Would Rather Be Remembered By A Song Than By A Victory.

I Go Into My Library And All History Unrolls Before Me.

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

A Tender Sadness Drops Upon My Soul, Like The Soft Twilight Dropping On The World.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.