I Love People, But I Love The

Nothing Is More Wistful Than The Scent Of Lilac, Nor More Robust Than Its Woody Stalk, For We Must Remember That It Is A Tree As Well As A Flower, We Must Try Not To Forget This.

Not Waving But Drowning Nobody Heard Him, The Dead Man, But Still He Lay Moaning: I Was Much Further Out Than You Thought And Not Waving But Drowning. Poor Chap, He Always Loved Larking And Now He's Dead It Must Have Been Too Cold For Him His Heart Gave Way, They Said. Oh, No No No, It Was Too Cold Always (still The Dead One Lay Moaning) I Was Much Too Far Out All My Life And Not Waving But Drowning.

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.

People Who Are Always Praising The Past And Especially The Time Of Faith As Best Ought To Go And Live In The Middle Ages And Be Burnt At The Stake As Witches And Sages.

Oh Lion In A Peculiar Guise, Sharp Roman Road To Paradise, Come Eat Me Up, I'll Pay Thy Toll With All My Flesh, And Keep My Soul.