My Books Kept Me From The Ring,

Such A Blush In The Midst Of Brown Was Born, Like Red Poppies Grown With Corn.

Peace And Rest At Length Have Come, All The Day's Long Toil Is Past; And Each Heart Is Whispering, "home, Home At Last!"

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!