Redheaded Women Buck Like Goats.

Do You Know What A Pearl Is And What An Opal Is? My Soul When You Came Sauntering To Me First Through Those Sweet Summer Evenings Was Beautiful But With The Pale Passionless Beauty Of A Pearl. Your Love Has Passed Through Me And Now I Feel My Mind Something Like An Opal, That Is, Full Of Strange Uncertain Hues And Colours, Of Warm Lights And Quick Shadows And Of Broken Music.

The Voices Blend And Fuse In Clouded Silence: Silence That Is Infinite Of Space: And Swiftly, Silently The Sound Is Wafted Over Regions Of Cycles Of Cycles Of Generations That Have Lived.

Imagine Some Foul And Putrid Corpse That Has Lain Rotting And Decomposing In The Grave, A Jelly-like Mass Of Liquid Corruption. Imagine Such A Corpse A Prey To Flames, Devoured By The Fire Of Burning Brimstone And Giving Off Dense Choking Fumes Of Nauseous Loathsome Decomposition. And Then Imagine This Sickening Stench, Multiplied A Millionfold And A Millionfold Again From The Millions Upon Millions Of Fetid Carcasses Massed Together In The Reeking Darkness, A Huge And Rotting Human Fungus. Imagine All This, And You Will Have Some Idea Of The Horror Of The Stench Of Hell.

Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No Lies.

I Should Tell You That Honestly, On My Honour Of A Nearwicked, I Always Think In A Wordworth's Of That Primed Favourite Continental Poet, Daunty, Gouty And Shopkeeper, A.g., Whom The Generality Admoyers In This That Is And That This Is To Come.