God Will Forgive Me. It's His Job.

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers, And As The Human Heart, Imagining Itself Alone And Unwatched, Feels Most Deeply In The Night-time, So Seems It As If The Flowers, In Musing Modesty, Await The Mantling Eventide Ere They Give Themselves Up Wholly To Feeling...

The Sea Appears All Golden. Beneath The Sun-lit Sky.

God Will Forgive Me. It's His Job.

And The Dancing Has Begun Now, And The Dancings Whirl Round Gaily In The Waltz's Giddy Mazes, And The Ground Beneath Them Trembles.

Don't Send A Poet To London.