It's Easy To Write When You've Nothing

They Say Eyes Clear With Age.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

Home Is So Sad. It Stays As It Was Left, / Shaped To The Comfort Of The Last To Go / As If To Win Them Back

But, O, Photography! As No Art Is,faithful And Disappointing! That Recordsdull Days As Dull, And Hold-it Smiles As Frauds,and Will Not Censor Blemishes,like Washing-lines, And Hall's-distemper Boards

Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most Of Us.