This Englishwoman Is So Refined, She Has

So I Fancy My Muse Says, When I Wish To Die, Oh No, Oh No, We Are Not Yet Friends Enough, And Virtue Also Says: We Are Not Yet Friends Enough.

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.

My Friendships, They Are A Very Strong Part Of My Life, They Are As Light As Gossamer But Also They Are As Strong As Steel. And I Cannot Throw Them Off, Nor Altogether Do With Them Or Without Them. And I Love Them At The Point Where They Say: It Is Nice To See You Again. And I Love Them Too At The Point When They Say: Good-bye, Come Again Soon. The Rhythm Of Friendship Is A Very Good Rhythm.

See The Cat At Love, Rolling With Its Sweetheart, Up And Over, With Shriek And Moan. But If A Person Comes By, They Break Away, Sit Separate Upon A Fence Washing Their Faces - And Might Never Have Met At All.

My Muse Sits Forlorn She Wishes She Had Not Been Born She Sits In The Cold No Word She Says Is Ever Told.