Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much

Who Made The World I Cannot Tell; 'tis Made, And Here Am I In Hell. My Hand, Though Now My Knuckles Bleed, I Never Soiled With Such A Deed.

I Could No More Define Poetry Than A Terrier Can Define A Rat.

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner With The Handcuffs On His Wrist? And What Has He Been After That They Groan And Shake Their Fists? And Wherefore Is He Wearing Such A Conscience-stricken Air? Oh They're Taking Him To Prison For The Colour Of His Hair.

Tomorrow, More's The Pity, Away We Both Must Hie, To Air The Ditty And To Earth I.

The Rainy Pleiads Wester Orion Plunges Prone, And Midnight Strikes And Hastens, And I Lie Down Alone.