The beast faith lives on its own dung.

The sweetest flowers in all the world- A baby's hands.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.

I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met; You hoped we were both broken-hearted And knew we should both forget.

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

Is not Precedent indeed a King of men? A Word from the Psalmist.