Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With

Tis Like The Birthday Of The World, When Earth Was Born In Bloom; The Light Is Made Of Many Dyes, The Air Is All Perfume: There's Crimson Buds, And White And Blue, The Very Rainbow Showers Have Turned To Blossoms Where They Fell, And Sown The Earth With Flowers.

My Brain Is Dull, My Sight Is Foul, I Cannot Write A Verse, Or Read-- Then, Pallas, Take Away Thine Owl, And Let Us Have A Lark Instead.

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

And There Is Even A Happiness That Makes The Heart Afraid.

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.