Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For

Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red, Rode Their Horses Up To Bed.

Without Imagination Of The One Kind Or Of The Other, Mortal Existence Is Indeed A Dreary And Prosaic Business... Illumined By The Imagination, Our Life, Whatever Its Defeats - Is A Never-ending Unforeseen Strangeness And Adventure And Mystery.

A Face Peered. All The Grey Night In Chaos Of Vacancy Shone; Nought But Vast Sorrow Was There The Sweet Cheat Gone.

It Was A Pity Thoughts Always Ran The Easiest Way, Like Water In Old Ditches.

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.