Music Can Be Made Anywhere, Is Invisible

Though One Cannot Always Remember Exactly Why One Has Been Happy, There Is No Forgetting That One Was.

He Was My North, My South, My East And West, My Working Week And My Sunday Rest, My Noon, My Midnight, My Talk, My Song; I Thought That Love Would Last Forever: I Was Wrong.

I'll Love You Till The Ocean Is Folded And Hung Up To Dry And The Seven Stars Go Squawking Like Geese About The Sky.

Long Ago The Accusations Had Begun, And Suddenly Knew By Whom It Had Been Judged

Oh, How I Wish That Orwell Were Still Alive, So That I Could Read His Comments On Contemporary Events!