My Face Looks Like A Wedding-cake Left

Thank God For Books As An Alternative To Conversation.

The Older Lives Like Not To Be Stood In Rows Or At Right Angles.

Warm Are The Still And Lucky Miles, White Shores Of Longing Stretch Away, A Light Of Recognition Fills The Whole Great Day, And Bright The Tiny World Of Lovers' Arms. Silence Invades The Breathing Wood Where Drowsy Limbs A Treasure Keep, Now Greenly Falls The Learned Shade Across The Sleeping Brows And Stirs Their Secret To A Smile. Restored! Returned! The Lost Are Borne On Seas Of Shipwreck Home At Last: See! In A Fire Of Praising Burns The Dry Dumb Past, And We Our Life-day Long Shall Part No More.

Mad Ireland Hurt You Into Poetry.

There Was Still Gold And Silver In The Mountains, And Hunger Was A More Immediate Sorrow