This Was But A Prelude;

In The Marvelous Month Of May When All The Buds Were Bursting, Then In My Heart Did Love Arise. In The Marvelous Month Of May When All The Birds Were Singing, Then Did I Reveal To Her My Yearning And Longing.

Write . . . Write . . . Pencil . . . Paper.

With His Nightcaps And The Tatters Of His Dressing-gown He Patches Up The Gaps In The Structure Of The Universe.

Round My Cradle Shimmered The Last Moonbeams Of The Eighteenth Century And The First Morning Rays Of The Nineteenth.

Christ Rode On An Ass, But Now Asses Ride On Christ.