The Thing Of Course, Is

Nothing Gives Quite The Satisfaction That Doing Things Brings.

Love Is Like A Wind Stirring The Grass Beneath Trees On A Black Night,' He Had Said. 'you Must Not Try To Make Love Definite. It Is The Divine Accident Of Life. If You Try To Be Definite And Sure About It And To Live Beneath The Trees, Where Soft Night Winds Blow, The Long Hot Day Of Disappointment Comes Swiftly And The Gritty Dust From Passing Wagons Gathers Upon Lips Inflamed And Made Tender By Kisses.

Father Was Made For Romance. For Him There Was No Such Thing As A Fact.

It Was A Cold Day But The Sun Was Out And The Trees Were Like Great Bonfires Against Gray Distant Fields And Hills.

I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.