I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope/ For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,/ For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith/ But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
[T.S. Eliot]

The vulture eats between his meals
And that’s the reason why
He very, very rarely feels
As well as you and I.

His eye is dull, his head is bald
His neck is growing thinner.
Oh! What a lesson to us all
To only eat at dinner!

[speaking of homeliness–a poem by Hillaire Belloc, to which I was introduced when my brother, then eight, recited it at a talent show]