Walk With The Dead For Fear Of

... Everyone Young Going Down The Long Slide To Happiness, Endlessly.

You Can't Put Off Being Young Until You Retire.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

Here Silence Stands Like Heat. Here Leaves Unnoticed Thicken, Hidden Weeds Flower, Neglected Waters Quicken, Luminously-peopled Air Ascends; And Past The Poppies Bluish Neutral Distance Ends The Land Suddenly Beyond A Beach Of Shapes And Shingle. Here Is Unfenced Existence: Facing The Sun, Untalkative, Out Of Reach.

Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear. Whether Or Not We Use It, It Goes, And Leaves What Something Hidden From Us Chose, And Age, And Then The Only End Of Age.