Ah$$$ my friend$$$ you do not know$$$ you do not know What life is$$$ you who hold it in your hands.

A current under sea<br>Picked his bones in whispers. <br>As he rose and fell <br>He passed the stages of his age and youth <br>Entering the whirlpool.

The communication<br>of the dead is tongued with fire beyond<br>the language of the living.

Politic$$$ cautious$$$ and meticulous; full of high sentence$$$ but a bit obtuse.

Every writer owes something to Holmes.

I smile$$$ of course$$$ and go on drinking tea.

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands<br>What water lapping the bow<br>And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog<br>What images return<br>O my daughter.

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices in the lost lilac and the lost sea voices and the weak spirit quickens to rebel for the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell quickens to recover.

Truth on our level is a different thing from truth for the jellyfish.

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it$$$ until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill.