I Wish I Was A

...as The Slow Sea Sucked At The Shore And Then Withdrew, Leaving The Strip Of Seaweed Bare And The Shingle Churned, The Sea Birds Raced And Ran Upon The Beaches. Then That Same Impulse To Flight Seized Upon Them Too. Crying, Whistling, Calling, They Skimmed The Placid Sea And Left The Shore. Make Haste, Make Speed, Hurry And Begone; Yet Where, And To What Purpose? The Restless Urge Of Autumn, Unsatisfying, Sad, Had Put A Spell Upon Them And They Must Flock, And Wheel, And Cry; They Must Spill Themselves Of Motion Before Winter Came.

But Luxury Has Never Appealed To Me, I Like Simple Things, Books, Being Alone, Or With Somebody Who Understands.

People Who Travel Are Always Fugitives.

... And Through It All And Afterwards They Would Be Together, Making Their Own World Where Nothing Mattered But The Things They Could Give To One Another, The Loveliness, The Silence, And The Peace.

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.