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

I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.

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.

I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.

Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.

Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress; and love has changed to kindliness.