Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps it youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it—You’re welcome.—No extra charge.)
First of November,—the Earthquake-day.—
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavour of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be,—for the Deacon’s art