‘I have done that,’ says my memory. ‘I cannot have done that’ – says my pride, and remains adamant. At last memory yields.
Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard We, the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly…
The public buys its opinions as it buys its meat, or takes its milk, on the principle that it is…
Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.