Love Me. Love My Umbrella.

Beware The Horns Of A Bull, The Heels Of The Horse, And The Smile Of An Englishman.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing Sad Songs About The End Of Love; Lay Aside Sadness And Sing How Love That Passes Is Enough. Sing About The Long Deep Sleep Of Lovers That Are Dead, And How In The Grave All Love Shall Sleep: Love Is Aweary Now.

What Incensed Him The Most Was The Blatant Jokes Of The Ones That Passed It All Off As A Jest, Pretending To Understand Everything And In Reality Not Knowing Their Own Minds.