Home Is A Name, A Word, It

I Revere The Memory Of Mr. F. As An Estimable Man And Most Indulgent Husband, Only Necessary To Mention Asparagus And It Appeared Or To Hint At Any Little Delicate Thing To Drink And It Came Like Magic In A Pint Bottle; It Was Not Ecstasy But It Was Comfort.

That Glorious Vision Of Doing Good Is So Often The Sanguine Mirage Of So Many Good Minds.

For The Night-wind Has A Dismal Trick Of Wandering Round And Round A Building Of That Sort, And Moaning As It Goes; And Of Trying, With Its Unseen Hand, The Windows And The Doors; And Seeking Out Some Crevices By Which To Enter.

Crush Humanity Out Of Shape Once More, Under Similar Hammers, And It Will Twist Itself Into The Same Tortured Forms. Sow The Same Seeds Of Rapacious Licence And Oppression Over Again, And It Will Surely Yield The Same Fruit According To Its Kind.

I Loved Her Against Reason, Against Promise, Against Peace, Against Hope, Against Happiness, Against All Discouragement That Could Be.