Exeter Was, I Suspect, More Crucial In

As I Walked Briskly Out The Road The Wind Knifed At My Face, But This Sun Caressed The Back Of My Neck.

The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was As Happy A Time As I Ever Had In My Life.

Nothing Endures. Not A Tree. Not Love. Not Even Death By Violence.

There Was No Harm In Taking Aim, Even If The Target Was A Dream.

It Was Hard To Remember In The Heavy And Sensual Clarity Of These Mornings; I Forgot Whom I Hated And Who Hated Me. I Wanted To Break Out Crying From Stabs Of Hopeless Joy, Or Intolerable Promise, Or Because These Mornings Were Too Full Of Beauty For Me, Because I Knew Of Too Much Hate To Be Contained In A World Like This.