read to us from the Rubiyat, Kipling, Hiawatha, Evangeline
and other poetry. The chilling irony
of the Ballad of Reading
Gaol filled me with a terrible fear, "For
every man kills the thing that he most loves". I
pondered on it for years and observed how people loved each
snippet of a poem:
poisoned the wine on my table,
" They've poisoned the bread on my plate;
" Some with their love, God help me!
" And others with their hate."
me how destructive possessive love can be. I saw
our parents love freely and without demands, with utter
They were my models, and a good thing, for neither
Ed nor I could have tolerated possessive of demanding or