On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows. ..
Phone Number *** - **** 1868
Birthday15 November 1955
Address Rue Chazière No: 1868
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A Valentine The Bree was up; the floods were out Around the hut of Culgo Jim: The hand of God had broke the drought And filled the channels to the brim: The outline of the hut loomed dim Among the shades of murmurous pine, That eve of good Saint Valentine.
He watched, and to his sleepy gaze The dying embers of the fire, Its yellow reds and pearly greys, Made pictures of his younger days. Outside the waters mounted higher Beneath a half-moon's sickly shine, That eve of good Saint Valentine.
There, in the great slab fire-place The oak log, burnt away to coal, Showed him the semblance of a face Framed in a golden aureole: Eyes, the clear windows of a soul— Soul of a maid, who used to sign Herself, ‘Jim, dear, your Valentine.'
Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear Love's kisses, not to be the mock Of grave-worms . . . Suddenly a whirr, And twelve loud strokes upon the clock; Then at the door a gentle knock. The collie dog began to whine That morn of good Saint Valentine.
He opened; by his heels the hound Sniffed at the night. ‘Who comes, and why? What? no one! Hush! was that a sound? Methought I heard a human cry. Bah! 'twas a curlew passing by Out where the lignum bushes twine, This morn of good Saint Valentine.
‘What ails the dog? Down, Stumpy, down! No? Well, lead on, perchance a It is, poor brute, that fears to drown. Heavens! how chill the waters creep! Why, Stumpy, do you splash and leap? 'Tis but a foolish quest of thine, This morn of good Saint Valentine.
‘Nay, not so foolish as I thought . . . Hark! 'mid those reeds a feeble scream! Mother of God! a cradle—brought Down from some homestead up the stream! A white-robed baby! Do I dream? No, 'tis that dear dead love of mine Who sends me thus a Valentine!'