What A Dusty Answer Gets

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

Jealousy Is Love Bed Of Burning Snarl.

The Man Of Science Is Nothing If Not A Poet Gone Wrong.

It's Past Parsons To Console Us: No, Nor No Doctor Fetch For Me: I Can Die Without My Bolus; Two Of A Trade, Lass, Never Agree! Parson And Doctor!--don't They Love Rarely Fighting The Devil In Other Men's Fields! Stand Up Yourself And Match Him Fairly: Then See How The Rascal Yields!

In Tragic Life, God Wot, No Villain Need Be! Passions Spin The Plot: We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within.