All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?

Somewhere—in desolate wind-swept space— In Twilight-land—in No-man’s land—Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand.“And who are you?” cried one, agape, Shuddering in the gloaming light.“I know not,” said the second Shape, “I only died last night.”

So precious life is! Even to the old The hours are as a miser’s coins!

Here is woe, a self and not the mask of woe.

That was indeed to live— At one bold swoop to wrest From darkling death the bestThat Death to Life can give!

What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.