I Wondered Why It Was That Places

They Are Not Brave, The Days When We Are Twenty-one. They Are Full Of Little Cowardices, Little Fears Without Foundation, And One Is So Easily Bruised, So Swiftly Wounded, One Falls To The First Barbed Word. To-day, Wrapped In The Complacent Armour Of Approaching Middle Age, The Infinitesimal Pricks Of Day By Day Brush One But Lightly And Are Soon Forgotten, But Then—how A Careless Word Would Linger, Becoming A Fiery Stigma, And How A Look, A Glance Over A Shoulder, Branded Themselves As Things Eternal.

Life Was A Series Of Greetings And Farewells, One Was Always Saying Good-bye To Something, To Someone.

A Bad Workman Blames His Tools.

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

How Simple Life Becomes When Things Like Mirrors Are Forgotten.