Poetry Has Been The Longest Pleasure Of

At First, There Is Something You Expect Of Life. Later, There Is What Life Expects Of You. By The Time You Realize These Are The Same, It Can Be Too Late For Expectations. What We Are Being, Not What We Are To Be. They Are The Same Thing.

Going To Europe, Someone Had Written, Was About As Final As Going To Heaven. A Mystical Passage To Another Life, From Which No-one Returned The Same. Those Returning In Such Ships Were Invincible, For They Had Managed It And Could Reflect Ever After On Anne Hathaway's Cottage Or The Tower Of London With A Confidence That Did Generate At Sydney. There Was Nothing Mythic At Sydney; Momentous Objects, Beings And Events All Occurred Abroad Or In The Elsewhere Of Books.

In Thoughts One Keeps A Reserve Of Hope, In Spite Of Everything. You Cannot Say Good-bye In Imagination. That Is Something You Can Only Do In Actuality.

... One Doesn't Really Profit From Experience; One Merely Learns To Predict The Next Mistake.

There Is Balance In Life, But Not Fairness.