Such A Blush In The Midst Of

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence, For No Lonely Bird Would Sing Into His Hollow Ear From Woods Forlorn, Nor Lowly Hedge Nor Solitary Thorn;- Shaking His Languid Locks All Dewy Bright With Tangled Gossamer That Fell By Night, Pearling His Coronet Of Golden Corn.

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

A Certain Portion Of The Human Race Has Certainly A Taste For Being Diddled.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.