Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.

Not Waving but Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

Death's not a separation or alteration or parting; it's just a one-handled door.

This Englishwoman is so refined, She has no bosom and no behind.

Into the dark night Resignedly I go, I am not so afraid of the dark night As the friends I do not know, I do not fear the night above As I fear the friends below.

People who are always praising the past And especially the time of faith as best Ought to go and live in the Middle Ages And be burnt at the stake as witches and sages.

Life may be treacherous, but you can always depend on death.