Youth Is Stranger Than Fiction.

One May Not Doubt That, Somehow Good Shall Come Of Water And Of Mud; And Sure, The Reverent Eye Must See A Purpose In Liquidity.

Blow Out, You Bugles, Over The Rich Dead! There's None Of These So Lonely And Poor Of Old, But, Dying, Has Made Us Rarer Gifts Than Gold.

War Knows No Power. Safe Shall Be My Going, Secretly Armed Against All Death's Endeavour; Safe Though All Safety's Lost; Safe Where Men Fall; And If These Poor Limbs Die, Safest Of All.

I Shall Desire And I Shall Find The Best Of My Desires; The Autumn Road, The Mellow Wind That Soothes The Darkening Shires. And Laughter, And Inn-fires.

I Have A Thousand Images Of You In An Hour; All Different And All Coming Back To The Same. I Think Of You Once Against A Sky Line: And On The Hill That Sunday Morning. The Light And The Shadow And Quietness And The Rain And The Wood. And You. Your Arms And Lips And Hair And Shoulders And Voice - You.