In America, even your menus have the gift of language. . . . The Chef's own Vienna Roast. … - Laurie Lee

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Intemperance is a hydra with a hundred heads. She never stalks abroad unaccompanied with impurity, anger, and the most infamous profligacies.

Laurie Lee

In America, even your menus have the gift of language. . . . The Chef's own Vienna Roast. A hearty, rich meat loaf, gently seasoned to perfection and served in a creamy nest of mashed farm potatoes and strictly fresh garden vegetables. Of course, what you get is cole slaw and a slab of meat, but that doesn't matter because the menu has already started your juices going. Oh, those menus. In America, they are poetry.

America, Creamy, Food, Garden, Hearty, Loaf

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For the first time I was learning how much easier it was to leave than to stay behind and love.

And Love, Easier, Firsts, Leave, Stay

At best, love is simply the slipping of a hand in another's, of knowing you are where you belong at last, and of exchanging through the eyes that all-consuming regard which ignores everybody else on earth.

Best Love, Everybody, Eye, Ignores, Love Is, Simply

Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn't raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things

Air, Blew, Butterfly, Rain, Sugared

Such a morning it is when love leans through geranium windows and calls with a cockerel's tongue. When red-haired girls scamper like roses over the rain-green grass, and the sun drips honey.

Drips, Girl, Love, Morning, Roses, Sun

The Welsh are not like any other people in Britain, and they know how separate they are. They are the Celts, the tough little wine-dark race who were the original possessors of the island, who never mixed with the invaders coming later from the east, but were slowly driven into the western mountains.

Celts, Dark, Island, Islands, Welsh, Wine