She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.
I have been an 'Official' all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity.
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
Autumn's the mellow time.
I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.
All has been looted, betrayed, sold; black death's wing flashed ahead.
Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.
It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.