Some Sigh For This And That; My

The Quaker Loves An Ample Brim, A Hat That Bows To No Salaam; And Dear The Beaver Is To Him As If It Never Made A Dam.

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

Oh Would I Were Dead Now, Or Up In My Bed Now, To Cover My Head Now, And Have A Good Cry!