Donne with Crooning
Go, and catch a falling star;
Perry Como's crosst the bar.
Retired Carouseliot
Although I do not hope to turn again,
Still orbital nostalgia gives me pain.
Yeats Hides from the Thunder
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid,
I wait, and cower beneath my dustbin lid.
[This message has been edited by Henry Quince (edited January 13, 2004).]
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