A Witty Woman Is A

I Know Him, February's Thrush, And Loud At Eve He Valentines On Sprays That Paw The Naked Bush Where Soon Will Sprout The Thorns And Bines.

I Expect Woman Will Be The Last Thing Civilized By Man.

Swift Doth Young Love Flee, And We Stand Wakened, Shivering From Our Dream.

Memoirs Are The Backstairs Of History.

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.