My Imagination Is A Monastery And I

This Living Hand, Now Warm And Capable Of Earnest Grasping, Would, If It Were Cold And In The Icy Silence Of The Tomb, So Haunt Thy Days And Chill Thy Dreaming Nights That Thou Would Wish Thine Own Heart Dry Of Blood, So In My Veins Red Life Might Stream Again, And Thou Be Conscience-calm'd. See, Here It Is-- I Hold It Towards You.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

O Aching Time! O Moments Big As Years!

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.