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V. (Victoria) Sackville-West
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FOR *** NO eyes shall see the poems that I write For you; not even yours; but after long Forgetful years have passed on our delight Some hand may chance upon a dusty song Of those fond days when every spoken word Was sweet, and all the fleeting things unspoken Yet sweeter, and the music half unheard Murmured through forests as a charm unbroken. It is the plain and ordinary...
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THE first thing which attracted my attention to the man was the shock of white hair above the lean young face. But for this, I should not have looked twice at him: long, spare, and stooping, a shabby figure, he crouched over a cup of coffee in a corner of the dingy restaurant, at fretful enmity with the world; typical, I should have said, of the furtive London nondescript. But that white hair startled...
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