Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.
Where was I going? I puzzled and wondered about it til I actually enjoyed the puzzlement and wondering.
There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.
There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
There have been as many varieties of socialists as there are wild birds that fly in the woods and sometimes go up and on through the clouds.