Woman's Reason Is In The Milk Of

I've Studied Men From My Topsy-turvy Close, And I Reckon, Rather True. Some Are Fine Fellows: Some, Right Scurvy; Most, A Dash Between The Two.

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.

Published Memoirs Indicate The End Of A Man's Activity, And That He Acknowledges The End.

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.

O Have A Care Of Natures That Are Mute!