Again The Cousin's Whistle! Go,

One May Do Whatever One Likes. In Art, The Only Thing Is, To Make Sure That One Does Like It.

Thou Art My Single Day, God Lends To Leaven What Were All Earth Else, With A Feel Of Heaven.

Poetry, Like Love, Is Something We Never Truly Say Goodbye To.

Needs There Groan A World In Anguish Just To Teach Us Sympathy?

Rats They Fought The Dogs And Killed The Cats, And Bit The Babies In The Cradles, And Ate The Cheeses Out Of The Vats, And Licked The Soup From The Cook's Own Ladles. Split Open The Kegs Of Salted Sprats, Made Nests Inside Men's Sunday Hats, And Even Spoiled The Women's Chats By Drowning Their Speaking With Shrieking And Squeaking In Fifty Different Sharps And Flats.