What Are Days For? Days Are Where

I Have Started To Say "a Quarter Of A Century" Or "thirty Years Back" About My Own Life.

Deprivation Is For Me What Daffodils Were For Wordsworth.

You Can't Put Off Being Young Until You Retire.

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.

In Times When Nothing Stood But Worsened, Or Grew Strange, There Was One Constant Good: She Did Not Change.