These Critics Who Crucify Me

Love Grows More Tremendously Full, Swift, Poignant, As The Years Multiply.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

I Can Write Best In The Silence And Solitude Of The Night, When Everyone Has Retired.

I See So Much More Than I Used To See. The Effect Has Been To Depress And Sadden And Hurt Me Terribly.

I Must Go Deeper And Even Stronger Into My Treasure Mine And Stint Nothing Of Time, Toil, Or Torture.