My Dog
The Curate thinks you have no soul: I know that he has none. But you, Dear friend! whose solemn self-control In our four-square, familiar pew, Was pattern to my youth--whose bark C...
The Curate thinks you have no soul: I know that he has none. But you, Dear friend! whose solemn self-control In our four-square, familiar pew, Was pattern to my youth--whose bark C...