And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays.
There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on; Whose prose is grand verse while his verse the Lord knows Is some of it pr No, t is not even prose!
Ez fer war, I call it murder, There you hev it plain an flat; I dont want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that. . . . . . . . An youve gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.