Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.
A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
I tell her we all shall fly so soon, not to let it grieve her, and what indeed is Earth but a Nest, from whose rim we are all falling?
But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory's fog is rising.
I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves.
Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.