Night decks out in saffron gown,
Sparkling stones on evening neck.
Couched Venus out of her lunar lair,
Panting for Apollo's fresh dewy peck.
Settling upon her grand fluffy down,
He turns to strings her goodly hair--
Arousing apace all the sleeping stars
By his tunes that rival the Steinway's.

They that cannot for God's
gold
wait dash for the devil's dross.

On the green pastures of tranquil peace
And prosperity may my soul famished
Ever be laid, to be fed and sated . . .

May my heart parched find solace
Beside the brook of goodness still
And cool, and my emptiness refill . . .

Serenity for trouble, joy for sorrow:
Let singing boughs bear the barren
Figs--bringing forth fruit of wren . . .

Arrow aimed at a flying sparrow,
Man must live not by bread alone.
He gains heaven that hell doth disown.

When we sleep or die,
know not where we lie.

Futile mental exertion,
blurring the vision
of wisdom
from
breakthrough.

Remov'd, affection horn . . .
heavy flood of tears flowing--
blood emotional's gushing
out from a heart broken.

Walks without halting gait--
changing styles;
swims across Dire Strait.