Most People Know More As They Get

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

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said; The Recent Buds Relax And Spread, Their Greenness Is A Kind Of Grief. Is It That They Are Born Again And We Grow Old? No, They Die Too. Their Yearly Trick Of Looking New Is Written Down In Rings Of Grain. Yet Still The Unresting Castles Thresh In Fullgrown Thickness Every May. Last Year Is Dead, They Seem To Say, Begin Afresh, Afresh, Afresh.

You Can't Put Off Being Young Until You Retire.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

I'd Like To Think...that People In Pubs Would Talk About My Poems