august 26 - white of lark; the coo of thee! the raven fails, it cannot see. light for dark, and pain to bring rapture from it's deadly sting.

august 27 - love, i think, is painful muse. to hold is great but leaves a bruise. a teary eye of sweet abuse. happiness, then, is but a rouse.

august 28 - i am swelled with joy for patience and things to come; i mourn the present.

august 29 - they are all still important to me. that they'll all fade from my memory is a comfort, but you might be eternal, a part of heaven itself.

august 30 - zeal is a fickle things— too little is sweet as saccharine, too much is bitter as herbs.