What happened to long summer hours' dim sense Of leisure, where I pined for chill t'avail, And stoked the thought of misty twilight's pale Eye while gaunt skeletons of trees skulked thence, Dreamed of 'gain donning plaid and tweed fr'intents, Yea of lo, nestling in such minutes' scale Praps of "my niche"--that oh! tis ah, the frail Note as it were of late November hence? Why did warmth skip out on the last train to Was't Mexico? um, was just days 'go fer All that? Where did the musty hours I knew Depart to, eh? and when? December'd tour Upon the heels of late October, poor As saying, and I search for my bearings...too.