Where weary folk toil, black with smoke, And hear but whistles scream, I went, all fresh from dawn and dew To carry them a dream. I went to bitter lanes and dark, Who once had known the sky, To carry them a dream-and found They had more dreams than I.

May I forget what ought to be forgotten; and recall, unfailing, all that ought to be recalled, each kindly thing, forgetting what might sting.

The cry of my body for completeness. That is a cry to you.

A good dog never dies. He always stays. He walks besides you on crisp autumn days when frost is on the fields and winter's drawing near. His head is within our hand in his old way.

We are made whole by books, as by great space and the stars.

Where weary folk toil, black with smoke, And hear but whistles scream, I went, all fresh from dawn and dew To carry them a dream. I went to bitter lanes and dark, Who once had known the sky, To carry them a dream-and found They had more dreams than I.

A good dog never dies.