There's little comfort in the wise

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

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.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

There's little comfort in the wise

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.

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