The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves

Coquetry Is The Champagne Of Love.

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.

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.'

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.