The rosy hearth, the lamplight's narrow beam, The meditation that is rather dream, With looks that lose themselves in cherished looks; The hour of steaming tea and banished books; The sweetness of the evening at an end, The dear fatigue, and right to rest attained, And worshipped expectation of the night,— Oh, all these things, in unrelenting flight, My dream pursues through all the vain delays, Impatient of the weeks, mad at the days!

And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

I got my Bachelor's degree in nursing and worked nine years - even taught nursing in a college - before I stopped and said to myself, 'This is not who I am. I am not really a nurse inside. I'm a writer.'

We who choose to surround ourselves_x000D_ with lives even more temporary than our_x000D_ own, live within a fragile circle;_x000D_ easily and often breached._x000D_ Unable to accept its awful gaps,_x000D_ we would still live no other way._x000D_ We cherish memory as the only_x000D_ certain immortality, never fully_x000D_ understanding the necessary plan.

I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.

In their eyes as they pass is not hatred, not excitement, not despair, not the tonic of their victory - there is just the simple expression of being here as though they had been here doing this forever, and nothing else.