The Place Is Very Well And Quiet

I Have Imbibed Such A Love For Money That I Keep Some Sequins In A Drawer To Count, And Cry Over Them Once A Week.

A Sort Of Hostile Transaction, Very Necessary To Keep The World Going, But By No Means A Sinecure To The Parties Concerned.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.

I Live Not In Myself, But I Become Portion Of That Around Me: And To Me High Mountains Are A Feeling, But The Hum Of Human Cities Torture.