Don't nurse your dreams, Rosy. You can't help having them, but don't nurse them. If you nurse your dreams, they tend to come true.

Summer fades the first cold, Northern air Sweeps, like hatred, through still days - The August heat now gone elsewhere, To Southern, bird-filled coasts and bays Amid constricting vales of cloud, A pale and liquid Autumn sun That once beat down on an empty plain And may again. And may again.

I've been number two in films for donkey's years.