I Suppose The Best Kind Of Spring

Truthfulness So Often Goes With Ruthlessness.

I Am A Restlessness Inside A Stillness Inside A Restlessness.

I Know All About The Facts Of Life, And I Don't Think Much Of Them.

He Stood Staring Into The Wood For A Minute, Then Said: "what Is It About The English Countryside — Why Is The Beauty So Much More Than Visual? Why Does It Touch One So?" He Sounded Faintly Sad. Perhaps He Finds Beauty Saddening — I Do Myself Sometimes. Once When I Was Quite Little I Asked Father Why This Was And He Explained That It Was Due To Our Knowledge Of Beauty's Evanescence, Which Reminds Us That We Ourselves Shall Die. Then He Said I Was Probably Too Young To Understand Him; But I Understood Perfectly.

Was I The Only Woman In The World Who, At My Age - And After A Lifetime Of Quite Rampant Independence - Still Did Not Quite Feel Grown Up?