Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer,

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

In Everyone There Sleeps. A Sense Of Life Lived According To Love. To Some It Means The Difference They Could Make. By Loving Others, But Across Most It Sweeps. As All They Might Have Done Had They Been Loved. That Nothing Cures.

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.

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

Most Things May Never Happen: This One Will.