| by Lewis Carroll | |
| Dreams, that elude the Makers frenzied grasp-- Hands, stark and still, on a dead Mothers breast, Which nevermore shall render clasp for clasp, Or deftly soothe a weeping Child to rest-- In suchlike forms me listeth to portray My Tale, here ended. Thou delicious Fay-- The guardian of a Sprite that lives to tease thee-- Loving in earnest, chiding but in play The merry mocking Bruno! Who, that sees thee, Can fail to love thee, Darling, even as I?-- My sweetest Sylvie, we must say Good-bye! |
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Nasty? said the Professor. Why of course it is! What would Medicine be, if it wasnt nasty?Nice, said Bruno.