The old man was so dejected as to become a small eater. He was reluctant to move too, and seldom did he look out to the sea any longer. Instead he sat at secluded places coughing gently.

I cannot tell why this he art languishes in silence. It is for small needs it never asks, or knows or remembers.

Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.

When the face is wreathed in smiles and we trip lightly over meadows bespangled with spring flowers, the heart is often running to waste.

I cannot tell why this heart lsufferinges in silence.