Originally Marriage Meant The Sale Of A

Love Without Hope, As When The Young Bird-catcher Swept Off His Tall Hat To The Squire's Own Daughter, So Let The Imprisoned Larks Escape And Fly Singing About Her Head, As She Rode By.

Poetry Is No More A Narcotic Than A Stimulant; It Is A Universal Bittersweet Mixture For All Possible Household Emergencies And Its Action Varies Accordingly As It Is Taken In A Wineglass Or A Tablespoon, Inhaled, Gargled Or Rubbed On The Chest By Hard Fingers Covered With Rings.

I Don't Really Feel My Poems Are Mine At All. I Didn't Create Them Out Of Nothing. I Owe Them To My Relations With Other People.

Strawberries That In Gardens Grow Are Plump And Juicy Fine, But Sweeter Far As Wise Men Know Spring From The Woodland Vine. No Need For Bowl Or Silver Spoon, Sugar Or Spice Or Cream, Has The Wild Berry Plucked In June Beside The Trickling Stream. One Such To Melt At The Tongue's Root, Confounding Taste With Scent, Beats A Full Peck Of Garden Fruit: Which Points My Argument.

Prose Books Are The Show Dogs I Breed And Sell To Support My Cat.