All Rooms Ought To Look

The Past Is Not Dead, It Is Living In Us, And Will Be Alive In The Future Which We Are Now Helping To Make.

Yea, I Have Looked, And Seen November There; The Changeless Seal Of Change It Seemed To Be, Fair Death Of Things That, Living Once, Were Fair; Bright Sign Of Loneliness Too Great For Me, Strange Image Of The Dread Eternity, In Whose Void Patience How Can These Have Part, These Outstretched Feverish Hands, This Restless Heart?

It Is The Childlike Part Of Us That Produces Works Of The Imagination. When We Were Children Time Passed So Slow With Us That We Seemed To Have Time For Everything.

No Man Is Good Enough To Be Another's Master.

As To The Garden, It Seems To Me Its Chief Fruit Is-blackbirds.