“Yes I now feel that it was then on that evening of sweet dreams- that the very first dawn of human love burst upon the icy night of my spirit. Since that period I have never seen nor heard your name without a shiver half of delight half of anxiety.”

“Half the night I waste in sighs,Half in dreams I sorrow afterThe delight of early skies;In a wakeful dose I sorrowFor the hand, the lips, the eyes,For the meeting of the morrow,The delight of happy laughter,The delight of low replies.”

“What a name! Was it love or praise?Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?I must learn Spanish, one of these days,Only for that slow sweet name's sake.”

“Someday you going to make some man very happyI hope its going to be Ray...Your soldier? I nodded, a half smile in my faceYou love him?Yes....Yes I do...”

“Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,When first on this delightful land he spreadsHis orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit and flower,Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile earthAfter soft showers, and sweet the coming onof grateful Evening mild; the silent Night,With this her solumn bird and hisfair Moon,And these the gems of Heaven, their starry train;But neither breath of morn nor rising sunOn this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flowerGlistening with dew, nor fragrance after shower,Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night,With this her solumn bird, nor walk by Moon,Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet”

“And even my sense of identity was wrapped in a namelessness often hard to penetrate, as we have just seen I think…Yes, even then, when already all was fading, waves and particles, there could be no things but nameless things, no names but thingless names. I say that now, but after all what do I know now about then, now when the icy words hail down upon me, the icy meanings, and the world dies too, foully named. All I know is what the words know, and the dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning, a middle and an end as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead. And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept. To hell with it anyway.”