Between friends differences in taste or opinion are irritating in direct proportion to their triviality.
Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
All I have is a voice.
A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.
The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the teacup opens A lane to the land of the dead.
The class distinctions proper to a democratic society are not those of rank or money, still less, as is apt to happen when these are abandoned, of race, but of age.