This is a sickness rooted and inherent in the nature of a tyranny: that he that holds it does not trust his friends.
You gave me Christopher Robin, and then You breathed new life in Pooh. Whatever of each has left my pen Goes homing back to you. My book is ready, and comes to greet The mother it longs to see -- It would be my present to you, my sweet, If it weren't your gift to me.