I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like

I Dream Too Much, Work Too Little.

England Offers New Comforts. I Could Write A Novel There.

I Cut You Out Because I Couldn't Stand Being A Passing Fancy.

Don't Let The Wicked City Get You Down.

My Thoughts Are Crabbed And Sallow, My Tears Like Vinegar, Or The Bitter Blinking Yellow Of An Acetic Star. Tonight The Caustic Wind, Love, Gossips Late And Soon, And I Wear The Wry-faced Pucker Of The Sour Lemon Moon. While Like An Early Summer Plum, Puny, Green, And Tart, Droops Upon Its Wizened Stem My Lean, Unripened Heart.