It Is Not Life That's Complicated, It's

For Awhile After You Quit Keats All Other Poetry Seems To Be Only Whistling Or Humming.

Think How You Love Me,' She Whispered. 'i Don't Ask You To Love Me Always Like This, But I Ask You To Remember.' You'll Always Be Like This To Me.' Oh No; But Promise Me You'll Remember.' Her Tears Were Falling. 'i'll Be Different, But Somewhere Lost Inside Me There'll Always Be The Person I Am Tonight.

It Is Youth’s Felicity As Well As Its Insufficiency That It Can Never Live In The Present, But Must Always Be Measuring Up The Day Against Its Own Radiantly Imagined Future

This Is What I Think Now: That The Natural State Of The Sentient Adult Is A Qualified Unhappiness.

I Was Thirty. Before Me Stretched The Portentous, Menacing Road Of A New Decade.