How Poor And Disheartening A Thing Is

See The Last Orange Roses, How They Blow / Deeper And Heavier Than In Their Prime, / In One Defiant Flame Before They Go.

I Like Owls. I Admire Their Intransigent Spirit. I Have Respected Them Deeply Ever Since I Met A Baby Owl In A Wood, When It Fell Over Dead, Apparently From Sheer Temper, Because I Dared To Approach It. It Defied Me First, And Then Died. I Have Never Forgotten The Horror And Shame I Experienced When That Soft Fluffy Thing (towards Which I Had Nothing But The Most Humanitarian Motives) Fell Dead From Rage At My Feet.

Still, No Gardener Would Be A Gardener If He Did Not Live In Hope.

Not Seeing Is Half-believing.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment?