All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

Death is no different whined at than withstood.

They say eyes clear with age.

In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love.

One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.

Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.

Heads in the Women's Ward On pillow after pillow lies The wild white hair and staring eyes; Jaws stand open; necks are stretched With every tendon sharply sketched; A bearded mouth talks silently To someone no one else can see. Sixty years ago they smiled At lover, husband, first-born child. Smiles are for youth. For old age come Death's terror and delirium.