Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron hurrying to catch- say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings at your heels, at your knees.

No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.