A Holiday Gives One A Chance To

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

It Is Curious How Any Making Of Order Makes One Feel Mentally Ordered, Ordered Inside.

In Poetry Compromise Is Fatal. In Action Of Any Cooperative Sort It Is Inevitable. The Thing Is To Find The Balance.

Gardening Is One Of The Rewards Of Middle Age, When One Is Ready For An Impersonal Passion, A Passion That Demands Patience, Acute Awareness Of A World Outside Oneself, And The Power To Keep On Growing Through All The Times Of Drought, Through The Cold Snows, Towards Those Moments Of Pure Joy When All Failures Are Forgotten And The Plum Tree Flowers.

At Any Moment Solitude May Put On The Face Of Loneliness.