She Danced A Jig, She Sung A

Bare Twigs In April Enhance Our Pleasure; We Know The Good Time Is Yet To Come.... Bare Twigs In Autumn Are Signs For Sadness; We Feel The Good Time Is Well-nigh Past.

Not Like Homer Would I Write, Not Like Dante If I Might, Not Like Shakespeare At His Best, Not Like Goethe Or The Rest, Like Myself, However Small, Like Myself, Or Not At All.

Before A Day Was Over, Home Comes The Rover, For Mother's Kiss - Sweeter This Than Any Other Thing!

Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies Open, Writ In Blossoms.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods, And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt, And Night By Night The Monitory Blast Wails In The Key-hole, Telling How It Pass'd O'er Empty Fields, Or Upland Solitudes, Or Grim Wide Wave; And Now The Power Is Felt Of Melancholy, Tenderer In Its Moods Than Any Joy Indulgent Summer Dealt.