My Age Fallen Away Like

Joy Is For The Simple Or The Great To Feel, Neither Of Which We Are.

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

It Is Fatal To Decide, Intellectually, What Good Poetry Is Because You Are Then In Honour Bound To Try To Write It, Instead Of The Poems That Only You Can Write.

Boys Dream Of Native Girls Who Bring Breadfruit, Whatever They Are.

Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer, Broader, Deeper, More Enjoyable Than Poems.