Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

I listen to money singing, it's like looking down from long French windows at a provincial town. The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad in the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

Most things may never happen: this one will.

Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again.

On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.

How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.

It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.