This Englishwoman Is So Refined, She Has

There Are Moments Of Despair That Come Sometimes, When Night Sets In And A White Fog Presses Against The Windows. Then Our House Changes Its Shape, Rears Up And Becomes A Place Of Despair. Then Fear And Rage Run Simply--and The Thought Of Death As A Friend. This Is The Simplest Of Thoughts, That Death Must Come When We Call, Although He Is A God.

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.

O Happy Dogs Of England, Bark Well At Errand Boys, If You Lived Anywhere Else, You Would Not Be Allowed To Make Such An Infernal Noise.

This Englishwoman Is So Refined, She Has No Bosom And No Behind.

If There Wasn't Death, I Think You Couldn't Go On.