What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
The beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt, that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.