In Tragic Life, God Wot,

She [comedy] It Is Who Proposes The Correcting Of Pretentiousness, Of Inflation, Of Dulness, And Of The Vestiges Of Rawness And Grossness To Be Found Among Us. She Is The Ultimate Civilizer, The Polisher, A Sweet Cook.

Lowly, With A Broken Neck, The Crocus Lays Her Cheek To Mire.

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.

A Kiss Is But A Kiss Now! And No Wave Of A Great Flood That Whirls Me To The Sea. But, As You Will! We'll Sit Contentedly, And Eat Our Pot Of Honey On The Grave.

We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within