And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish

Youth is stranger than fiction.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.

And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.

There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.