We Cling To Our Last

There Does Seem To Me Something Sad In Life. It Is Hard To Say What It Is. I Don't Mean The Sorrow That We All Know, Like Illness And Poverty And Death. No, It Is Something Different. It Is There, Deep Down, Deep Down, Part Of One, Like One's Breathing.

If Only One Could Tell True Love From False Love As One Can Tell Mushrooms From Toadstools. With Mushrooms It Is So Simple - You Salt Them Well, Put Them Aside And Have Patience. But With Love, You Have No Sooner Lighted On Anything That Bears Even The Remotest Resemblance To It Than You Are Perfectly Certain It Is Not Only A Genuine Specimen, But Perhaps The Only Genuine Mushroom Ungathered.

All The Wild Sweetness Of The Flower Tangled Against The Wall. It Was That Magic, Silent Hour.... The Branches Grew So Tall They Twined Themselves Into A Bower. The Sun Shown ... And The Fall Of Yellow Blossom On The Grass! You Feel That Golden Rain? Both Of You Could Not Hold, Alas, (both Of You Tried, In Vain) A Memory, Stranger. So I Pass.... It Will Not Come Again.

Once We Have Learned To Read, Meaning Of Words Can Somehow Register Without Consciousness.

September Is Different From All Other Months. It Is More Magical. I Feel The Strange Chemical Change In The Earth Which Produces Mushrooms Is The Cause, Too, Of The Extra 'life' In The Air - A Resilience, A Sparkle.