The Flower And Fruit Of Love Are

People Who Are Always Praising The Past And Especially The Time Of Faith As Best Ought To Go And Live In The Middle Ages And Be Burnt At The Stake As Witches And Sages.

All Poetry Has To Do Is To Make A Strong Communication. All The Poet Has To Do Is Listen. The Poet Is Not An Important Fellow. There Will Also Be Another Poet.

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.

Not Waving But Drowning Nobody Heard Him, The Dead Man, But Still He Lay Moaning: I Was Much Further Out Than You Thought And Not Waving But Drowning. Poor Chap, He Always Loved Larking And Now He's Dead It Must Have Been Too Cold For Him His Heart Gave Way, They Said. Oh, No No No, It Was Too Cold Always (still The Dead One Lay Moaning) I Was Much Too Far Out All My Life And Not Waving But Drowning.

Coleridge Received The Person From Porlock And Ever After Called Him A Curse, Then Why Did He Hurry To Let Him In? He Could Have Hid In The House.