I Deplore My Shortcomings, But Plan To

Guilt Agonizes Over Trifles, Ignores Habitual Wrongdoing.

Young Poets Bewail The Passing Of Love; Old Poets, The Passing Of Time. There Is Surprisingly Little Difference.

My Mentors Grow Old And Foolish. I Am Afraid.

Mild Brown Eyes Beckon Me To The Past, But Memory Provides No Clue.

Necessity Makes Heroes Of Us All.