O, Let My Books Be

I Know No Ways To Mince It In Love, But Directly To Say - I Love You

But O, How Bitter A Thing It Is To Look Into Happiness Through Another Man's Eyes.

Men's Evil Manners Live In Brass; Their Virtues We Write In Water.

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.