For The Rest Of His Life, Oliver

Come In, -- Come In! And Know Me Better, Man! I Am The Ghost Of Christmas Present. Look Upon Me! You Have Never Seen The Like Of Me Before!

Now I Am In The Garden At The Back . . . A Very Preserve Of Butterflies As I Remember It, With A High Fence, And A Gate . . . Where The Fruit Clusters On The Trees, Riper And Richer Than Fruit Has Ever Been Since, In Any Other Garden, And Where My Mother Gathers Some In A Basket While I Stand By, Bolting Furtive Gooseberries, And Trying To Look Unnerved.

Some People Are Nobody's Enemies But Their Own

A Blight Had Fallen On The Trees And Shrubs; And The Wind, At Length Beginning To Break The Unnatural Stillness That Had Prevailed All Day, Sighed Heavily From Time To Time, As Though Foretelling In Grief The Ravages Of The Coming Storm. The Bat Skimmed In Fantastic Flights Through The Heavy Air, And The Ground Was Alive With Crawling Things, Whose Instinct Brought Them Forth To Swell And Fatten In The Rain.

Night, Like A Giant, Fills The Church, From Pavement To Roof, And Holds Dominion Through The Silent Hours. Pale Dawn Again Comes Peeping Through The Windows: And, Giving Place To Day, Sees Night Withdraw Into The Vaults, And Follows It, And Drives It Out, And Hides Among The Dead.