One Never Knows Really How

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.

Christianity In The Suburb Is Cheerful. The Church Is A Centre Of Social Activity And Those Who Go To Church Need Never Be Lonely.

This Is The Simplest Of All Thoughts, That Death Must Come When We Call, Although He Is A God.

I Love People, But I Love The Thought And Memory Of Them Just As Much.