Cities, Like Cats, Will Reveal Themselves At

Blow Out, You Bugles, Over The Rich Dead! There's None Of These So Lonely And Poor Of Old, But, Dying, Has Made Us Rarer Gifts Than Gold.

I Shall Desire And I Shall Find The Best Of My Desires; The Autumn Road, The Mellow Wind That Soothes The Darkening Shires. And Laughter, And Inn-fires.

Love Is A Breach In The Walls, A Broken Gate, Love Sells The Proud Heart's Citadel To Fate.

And In My Flower-beds, I Think, Smile The Carnation And The Pink.

There's Little Comfort In The Wise