To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,
But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,
Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract
The "bigamies" of fate and fact.
Alas! thy crutch of many years
Still hints "romantic" pains and fears;
A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,
To keep "plumbago" still at bay!
Its helpful mission has a share
In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.
And, by the way, not crutch alone
Finds in that book its value shown.
There in the depths of friendship's mines
Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines;
Impromptus born at love's command
To deck occasion's wise demand.
One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,
No "reprehensible" despair;
But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press
Poured out in pure unselfishness.
This brings to mind thy Knitting-Work,
Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,
And other books with humor rife,
Done in the priming of thy life.
"Contusion of ideas." O no;
What "Angular Saxon" would say so?
"Congestive thoughts then so inane
They'd decompose the soundest brain."
Yes, there it is, thy humor still,
Not seventy years and two can kill.
'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,
A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.