The Season Of Love Is The Carnival

She [comedy] It Is Who Proposes The Correcting Of Pretentiousness, Of Inflation, Of Dulness, And Of The Vestiges Of Rawness And Grossness To Be Found Among Us. She Is The Ultimate Civilizer, The Polisher, A Sweet Cook.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

What A Woman Thinks Of Women Is The Test Of Her Nature.

Sunrays, Leaning On Our Southern Hills And Lighting Wild Cloud-mountains That Drag The Hills Along, Oft Ends The Day Of Your Shifting Brilliant Laughter Chill As A Dull Face Frowning On A Song. Ay, But Shows The South-west A Ripple-feathered Bosom Blown To Silver While The Clouds Are Shaken And Ascend Scaling The Mid-heavens As They Stream, There Comes A Sunset Rich, Deep Like Love In Beauty Without End.

Darker Grows The Valley, More And More Forgetting: So Were It With Me If Forgetting Could Be Willed. Tell The Grassy Hollow That Holds The Bubbling Well-spring, Tell It To Forget The Source That Keeps It Filled.