Please Don't Think Me Negligent Or Rude.

I Dread No More The First White In My Hair, Or Even Age Itself, The Easy Shoe, The Cane, The Wrinkled Hands, The Special Chair: Time, Doing This To Me, May Alter Too My Anguish, Into Something I Can Bear

That Is My Being, The Madness Of An Unaccustomed Mood.

And Must I Then, Indeed, Pain, Live With You All Through My Life?-sharing My Fire, My Bed, Sharing-oh, Worst Of All Things!-the Same Head?- And, When I Feed Myself, Feeding You Too?

A Person Who Publishes A Book Appears Willfully In Public Eye With His Pants Down.

To Be Grown Up Is To Sit At The Table With People Who Have Died, Who Neither Listen Nor Speak.