If It Is Thus, I Ask Emphatically

Alone, What Did Bloom Feel? The Cold Of Interstellar Space, Thousands Of Degrees Below Freezing Point Or The Absolute Zero Of Fahrenheit, Centigrade Or Réaumur: The Incipient Intimations Of Proximate Dawn.

His Heart Danced Upon Her Movement Like A Cork Upon A Tide.

Whatever Else Is Unsure In This Stinking Dunghill Of A World A Mother's Love Is Not.

People Could Put Up With Being Bitten By A Wolf But What Properly Riled Them Was A Bite From A Sheep.

Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing Sad Songs About The End Of Love; Lay Aside Sadness And Sing How Love That Passes Is Enough. Sing About The Long Deep Sleep Of Lovers That Are Dead, And How In The Grave All Love Shall Sleep: Love Is Aweary Now.