I Think That At The Bottom Of

Deprivation Is For Me What Daffodils Were For Wordsworth.

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.

And The Case Of Butterflies So Rich It Looks As If All Summer Settled There And Died.

In Times When Nothing Stood But Worsened, Or Grew Strange, There Was One Constant Good: She Did Not Change.

I Wonder Love Can Have Already Set In Dreams, When We've Not Met More Times Than I Can Number On One Hand.