Any Memory For The Most Part Depending

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

Heads In The Women's Ward On Pillow After Pillow Lies The Wild White Hair And Staring Eyes; Jaws Stand Open; Necks Are Stretched With Every Tendon Sharply Sketched; A Bearded Mouth Talks Silently To Someone No One Else Can See. Sixty Years Ago They Smiled At Lover, Husband, First-born Child. Smiles Are For Youth. For Old Age Come Death's Terror And Delirium.

Things Are Tougher Than We Are, Just As Earth Will Always Respond However We Mess It About.

There Is Bad In All Good Authors: What A Pity The Converse Isn't True!

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.