If We Couldn't Laugh We

The Question That He Frames In All But Words Is What To Make Of A Diminished Thing.

Out Alone In The Winter Rain, / Intent On Giving And Taking Pain.

The Line-storm Clouds Fly Tattered And Swift, The Road Is Forlorn All Day, Where A Myriad Snowy Quartz Stones Lift, And The Hoof-prints Vanish Away. The Roadside Flowers, Too Wet For The Bee, Expend Their Bloom In Vain. Come Over The Hills And Far With Me, And Be My Love In The Rain.

I Never Dared To Be Radical When Young For Fear It Would Make Me Conservative When Old.

You, Of Course, Are A Rose-- But Were Always A Rose.