Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows all the other knows, learned by heart from head to toes.

All my life I have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper - just running down the edges of different countries and continents, 'looking for something'.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.

What the Man-Moth fears most he must do.

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by.