I Hate People But I Love Gatherings.

Sweet Love, Sweet Thorn, When Lightly To My Heart. I Took Your Thrust, Whereby I Since Am Slain, And I Lie Disheveled In The Grass Apart, A Sodden Thing Bedrenched By Tears And Rain.

The Englishman Foxtrots As He Fox-hunts, With All His Being, Through Thickets, Through Ditches, Over Hedges, Through Chiffons, Through Waiters, Over Saxophones, To The Victorious Finish; And Who Goes Home Depends On How Many The Ambulance Will Accommodate.

When You Are Corn And Roses And At Rest I Shall Endure, A Dense And Sanguine Ghost To Haunt The Scene Where I Was Happiest To Bend Above The Thing I Loved The Most

Earth Does Not Understand Her Child, Who From The Loud Gregarious Town Returns, Depleted And Defiled, To The Still Woods, To Fling Him Down.

But You, You Foolish Girl, You Have Gone Home To A Leaky Castle Across The Sea To Lie Awake In Linen Smelling Of Lavender, And Hear The Nightingale, And Long For Me.