The British do not expect happiness. I had the impression, all the time that I lived there, that they do not want to be happy; they want to be right.
Though a country be sundered, hills and rivers endure; And spring comes green again to trees and grasses Where petals have been shed like tears And lonely birds have sung their grief. . . . After the war-fires of three months, One message from home is worth a ton of gold. . . . I stroke my white hair. It has grown too thin To hold the hairpins any more.