My Friends Plunged Into A

You Must Find Your Own Quiet Center Of Life, And Write From That To The World.

Imagination Is The Only True Thing In The World!

In The Life Of Each Of Us, I Said To Myself, There Is A Place Remote And Islanded, And Given To Endless Regret Or Secret Happiness; We Are Each The Uncompanioned Hermit And Recluse Of An Hour Or A Day; We Understand Our Fellows Of The Cell To Whatever Age Of History They May Belong.

When She Walked...she Stretched Out Long And Thin Like A Little Tiger, And Held Her Head High To Look Over The Grass As If She Were Treading The Jungle.

Life Was Resumed, And Anxious Living Blew Away As If It Had Not Been. I Could Not Breathe Deep Enough Or Long Enough. It Was A Return To Happiness.