1 ‘That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.’ (from Sonnet 73)
Beautiful words sent to my Fb page by the Folio Society – thanks.
2 Email from my Sister-in-law in Atlanta, cheerful stream of consciousness and much appreciated.
3 Much needed moral support from good friends. Thank you.
