Veels Vithin Veels, A Prison In A

Poetry's Unnat'ral; No Man Ever Talked Poetry 'cept A Beadle On Boxin' Day.

... When The Locked Door Opens, And There Comes In A Young Woman, Deadly Pale, And With Long Fair Hair, Who Glides To The Fire, And Sits Down In The Chair We Have Left There, Wringing Her Hands.

For Though We Are Perpetually Bragging Of It As Our Safety, It Is Nothing But A Poor Fringe On The Mantle Of The Upper.

Prowling About The Rooms, Sitting Down, Getting Up, Stirring The Fire, Looking Out The Window, Teasing My Hair, Sitting Down To Write, Writing Nothing, Writing Something And Tearing It Up...

On Summer Evenings, When Every Flower, And Tree, And Bird, Might Have Better Addressed My Soft Young Heart, I Have In My Day Been Caught In The Palm Of A Female Hand By The Crown, Have Been Violently Scrubbed From The Neck To The Roots Of The Hair As A Purification For The Temple, And Have Then Been Carried Off Highly Charged With Saponaceous Electricity, To Be Steamed Like A Potato In The Unventilated Breath Of The Powerful Boanerges Boiler And His Congregation, Until What Small Mind I Had, Was Quite Steamed Out Of Me