“…but somehow I can’t find
anything hopeless in having lived—all the broken columnes and clasped hands and
doves and angels mean romances—and in a hundred years I think I shall like
having young people speculate on whether my eyes were brown or blue—of course,
they are neither—I hope my grave has an air of many, many years ago about
it—isn’t it funny how, out of a row of confederate soldiers, two or three will
make you think of dead lovers and dead loves—when they’re exactly like the
others, even to the yellowish moss? Old death is so beautiful—so very
beautiful—we will die together—I know”