Why Is It That A

I Wish I Had Never Been Born--there Or Anywhere Else.

In The Ill-judged Execution Of The Well-judged Plan Of Things The Call Seldom Produces The Comer, The Man To Love Rarely Coincides With The Hour For Loving

Christmas Eve, And Twelve Of The Clock. "now They Are All On Their Knees," An Elder Said As We Sat In A Flock By The Embers In Hearth-side Ease. We Pictured The Meek Mild Creatures Where They Dwelt In Their Strawy Pen, Nor Did It Occur To One Of Us There To Doubt They Were Kneeling Then. So Fair A Fancy Few Would Weave In These Years! Yet, I Feel If Someone Said On Christmas Eve, "come; See The Oxen Kneel, In The Lonely Barton By Yonder Coomb Our Childhood Used To Know," I Should Go With Him In The Gloom, Hoping It Might Be So.

If Galileo Had Said In Verse That The World Moved, The Inquisition Might Have Let Him Alone.

It Was Then That The Ecstasy And The Dream Began, In Which Emotion Was The Matter Of The Universe, And Matter But An Adventitious Intrusion Likely To Hinder You From Spinning Where You Wanted To Spin.