[At a musical concert:] . . . the music's pure algebra of enchantment.

For in this walk, this voyage, it is yourself, the profound history of your 'self,' that now as always you encounter.

[At a musical concert:] . . . the music's pure algebra of enchantment.

MUSIC I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead. Your hands once touched this table and this silver,And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass. For it was in my heart you moved among them,And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes.And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

I'm afraid I wasn't much of a student, but my casual reading was enormous.

Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing.

Schoolchildren all over America are told to write to authors-often to authors whom they have never before heard of, whose work they are to young to understand in the least, and often in letters which are almost illiterate. If children are to be taught to respect the work of American poets I think some better way might be found to do so- some way which would not make such an inconsiderate demand on the author's time.