They Say That God Is

September's Baccalaureate A Combination Is Of Crickets - Crows - And Retrospects And A Dissembling Breeze That Hints Without Assuming - An Innuendo Sear That Makes The Heart Put Up Its Fun And Turn Philosopher.

I . . . Am Small, Like The Wren, And My Hair Is Bold Like The Chestnut Burr; And My Eyes Like The Sherry In The Glass That The Guest Leaves.

A Courteous, Yet Harrowing Grace, As Guest, That Would Be Gone

I Had No Time To Hate, Because The Grave Would Hinder Me, And Life Was Not So Ample I Could Finish Enmity Nor Had I Time To Love: But Since Some Industry Must Be, The Little Toil Of Love, I Thought, Was Large Enough For Me.

I Never Lost As Much But Twice, And That Was In The Sod.