As One Who Cons At

And The Sun Had On A Crown Wrought Of Gilded Thistledown, And A Scarf Of Velvet Vapor And A Raveled Rainbow Gown; And His Tinsel-tangled Hair Tossed And Lost Upon The Air Was Glossier And Flossier Than Any Anywhere.

One Naked Star Has Waded Through The Purple Shallows Of The Night, And Faltering As Falls The Dew It Drips Its Misty Light.

But The Air's So Appetizin'; And The Landscape Through The Haze Of A Crisp And Sunny Morning Of The Airly Autumn Days Is A Pictur' That No Painter Has The Colorin' To Mock-when The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.

To Make The World A Friendly Place, One Must Show It A Friendly Face.

Think Of Him Still As The Same, I Say, He Is Not Dead, He Is Just - Away.