An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick >>
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeis >>
I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emp >>
For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. >>
Death not merely ends life, it also bestows upon it a silent completen >>
These have not the hope to die. >>
I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.