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Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow, . . .
Toe after toe, a snowing flesh,
a gold of lemon, root and rind,
she sifts in sunlight down the stairs . . .
I want no horns to rouse me up to-night,
And trumpets make too clamorous a ring
To fit my mood, it is so weary white . . .
I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count . . .
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels; . . .
From a documentary on marsupials I learn
that a pillowcase makes a fine
substitute pouch for an orphaned kangaroo. . . .
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move, . . .