What Do You Do When You're No

Like The Morning You Walked Out Of That Old House, When You Were Eighteen And I Was, Well, I Had Just Turned Nineteen, Hadn't I? I Was A Nineteen-year-old And I Was In Love With Louis And I Was In Love With You, And I Thought I Had Never Seen Anything So Beautiful As The Sight Of You Walking Out A Glass Door In The Early Morning, Still Sleepy, In Your Underwear. Isn't It Strange?

I Know, Speaking For Myself, No Matter What I'm Able To Do, No Matter What Book Comes Out And Ends Up On Paper, I Always Had Something Bigger And Grander In My Head.

On A Summer Night It Can Be Lovely To Sit Around Outside With Friends After Dinner And, Yes, Read Poetry To Each Other. Keats And Yeats Will Never Let You Down, But It's Differently Exciting To Read The Work Of Poets Who Are Still Walking Around Out There.

What I Want To Say Is That I Owe All The Happiness Of My Life To You. You Have Been Entirely Patient With Me And Incredibly Good. Everything Is Gone From Me But The Certainty Of Your Goodness. I Can't Go On Spoiling Your Life Any Longer. I Don't Think Two People Could Have Been Happier Than We Have Been.

There Is Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There, When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined , Though Everyone But Children (and Perhaps Even They) Knows These Hours Will Inevitably Be Followed By Others, Far Darker And More Difficult. Still, We Cherish The City, The Morning, We Hope, More Than Anything, For More. Heaven Only Knows Why We Love It So.