And Yet To Every Bad There Is

The Social Mould Civilization Fits Us Into Have No More Relation To Our Actual Shapes Than The Conventional Shapes Of The Constellations Have To The Real Star-patterns. I Am Called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, Living A Calm Wedded Life With My Counterpart Of That Name. But I Am Not Really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, But A Woman Tossed About, All Alone, With Aberrant Passions, And Unaccountable Antipathies.

Weathers This Is The Weather The Cuckoo Likes, And So Do I; When Showers Betumble The Chestnut Spikes, And Nestlings Fly; And The Little Brown Nightingale Bills His Best, And They Sit Outside At 'the Traveller's Rest,' And Maids Come Forth Sprig-muslin Drest, And Citizens Dream Of The South And West, And So Do I. This Is The Weather The Shepherd Shuns, And So Do I; When Beeches Drip In Browns And Duns, And Thresh And Ply; And Hill-hid Tides Throb, Throe On Throe, And Meadow Rivulets Overflow, And Drops On Gate Bars Hang In A Row, And Rooks In Families Homeward Go, And So Do I.

Some Women's Love Of Being Loved Is Insatiable; And So, Often, Is Their Love Of Loving; And In The Last Case They May Find That They Can't Give It Continuously To The Chamber-officer Appointed By The Bishop's License To Receive It.

Always Wanting Another Man Than Your Own.

A Blaze Of Love And Extinction, Was Better Than A Lantern Glimmer Of The Same Which Should Last Long Years.