My Wicked Heart Will Ramble On In

Done Because We Are Too Many.

Nobody Had Beheld The Gravitation Of The Two Into One

Clare Had Studied The Curves Of Those Lips So Many Times That He Could Reproduce Them Mentally With Ease: And Now, As They Again Confronted Him, Clothed With Colour And Life, They Sent An Aura Over His Flesh, A Breeze Through His Nerves, Which Wellnigh Produced A Qualm; And Actually Produced, By Some Mysterious Physiological Process, A Prosaic Sneeze.

It Was Still Early, And The Sun's Lower Limb Was Just Free Of The Hill, His Rays, Ungenial And Peering, Addressed The Eye Rather Than The Touch As Yet.

We Colour And Mould According To The Wants Within Us Whatever Our Eyes Bring In.