War Among Men Defiles This World.

Here I Am, An Old Man In A Dry Month, Being Read To By A Boy, Waiting For Rain.

His Laughter Tinkled Among The Teacups.

There's No Vocabulary For Love Within A Family, Love That's Lived In But Not Looked At, Love Within The Light Of Which All Else Is Seen, The Love Within Which All Other Love Finds Speech. This Love Is Silent.

I Learn A Great Deal By Merely Observing You, And Letting You Talk As Long As You Please, And Taking Note Of What You Do Not Say.

Tennyson And Browning Are Poets, And They Think; But They Do Not Feel Their Thought As Immediately As The Odour Of A Rose. A Thought To Donne Was An Experience; It Modified His Sensibility.