In The Novel Or The Journal You

One Of The Springs Of Poetry Is Joy.

Innocence Is Not Pure So Much As Pleased, Always Expectant, Bright-eyed, Self-enclosed

A Garden Is Always A Series Of Losses Set Against A Few Triumphs, Like Life Itself.

For Inside All The Weakness Of Old Age, The Spirit, God Knows, Is As Mercurial As It Ever Was.

Death Does Frame A Person And Somehow It Is The Good That Stays.