in article dt39st01b3c@drn.newsguy.com, Karla at karlark@sbcglobal.net wrote on 2/16/06 8:46 PM:
In this little urn is laid
Prudence Baldwin, once my maid,
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.
Robert Herrick
The same dead white Europeon guy:
THE ARGUMENT OF HIS BOOK.
by Robert Herrick
I SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal-cakes;
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris;
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king;
I write of Hell ; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
----
Today's observation included 3 generations. The kid, maybe 7, is clumping in contractor's boots or hiphop ones, and a logo seal jacket he won't fill out in 7 more years, and his head is bald naked.
GRANDMA: Come over here. Come on.
KID: (turns, walks back to GRANDMA)
GRANDMA: Where did you get those boots?
KID: Hnh??
GRANDMA: Where'd you get them boots?
KID: I don't know (not dunno), my Daddy got them for me.
Stuart
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