To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak; Who do not drink their tea, though they always said Tea was such a comfort.

Here's a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.

Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.

Progress-progress is the dirtiest word in the language-who ever told us- And made us believe it-that to take a step forward was necessarily, was always A good idea?

I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.

April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

And all the loveliest things there be Come simply, so, it seems to me.

Cut if you will, with Sleeps dull knife, Each day to half its length, my friend,-The years that Time takes off my life, He'll take off the other end!

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.