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.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

In dreams begins responsibility.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams I have spread my dreams under your feet Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.