The Beauty of Death.
Each and every one of us, dear Mary, must have a resting place somewhere. The resting place of my soul is a beautiful grove where my knowledge of you lives.
Hate is a dead thing. Who of you would be a tomb?
The Infinite keeps naught save Love, for it is in its own likeness.
Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.