A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through.

It is not, Dear, because I am alone, For I am lonelier when the rest are near, But that my place against your heart has grown Too dear to dream of when you are not here.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through.

The ones as big as sheep were easier to avoid, because you could see them coming, but when they flew in at the window and curled up under your eiderdown, and you did not find them till you went to bed, it was always a shock. The ones this size did not eat people, only lettuces, but they always scorched the sheets and pillowcases dreadfully.

Time and space are only forms of thought.

I never read prefaces, and it is not much good writing things just for people to skip. I wonder other authors have never thought of this.

Life will give you what you ask of here if only you ask long enough and plainly enough.