Remorse Is Memory Awake.

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes. The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs.

Good Times Are Always Mutual; That Is What Makes Good Times.

By Chivalries As Tiny, A Blossom, Or A Book, The Seeds Of Smiles Are Planted- Which Blossom In The Dark.

Lest I Should Be Old-fashioned, I'll Put A Trinket On.

There Is A Solitude Of Space. A Solitude Of Sea. A Solitude Of Death, But These Societies Shall Be Compared With That Profounder Site-that Polar Privacy. A Soul Admitted To Itself--finite Infinity.