Love Is Quivering Happiness.

For What Is Evil But Good Tortured By Its Own Hunger And Thirst?

The Brooks Flow To Their Lover, The Sea, And The Flowers Smile At The Object Of Their Passion, The Light. The Mist Rolls Down To Its Beloved, The Valley. And I? In Me Is What Brooks Do Not Know, What Flowers Do Not Hear, What The Mist Does Not Apprehend. You See Me Alone In My Love, Solitary In My Yearning.

Wailing And Lamentation Befit Those Who Stand Before The Throne Of Life And Depart Without Leaving In Its Hands A Drop Of The Sweat Of Their Brows Or The Blood Of Their Hearts.

If My Survival Caused Another To Perish, Then Death Would Be Sweeter And More Beloved.

I Deserted The World And Sought Solitude Because I Became Tired Of Rendering Courtesy To Those Multitudes Who Believe That Humility Is A Sort Of Weakness, And Mercy A Kind Of Cowardice, And Snobbery A Form Of Strength.