Slept in snow-drift that night in wet clothes, mercury 40 below.
Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe we spread.
Below, on the terrace, Viviette was walking, and she filled his universe.
There were two deep reaches; one above, the other below, our camp.
Shakespeare was probably of middle height, or below it, and podgy.
She climbed on a high one ...