To Pyrrha.If nights were wet dark and strange and wild, If flowers bloomed ceaseless through the year, If woods were always gay and never drear, If the river danced forever in the sun, If songs of twitterng birds were never done, This glorious world a wretched bore would be, A bore insufferable to thee and me. If you were always decorous and mild, And never wicked, obstinate, and wild; If only smiles and laughter through the year, Grew on your life, and vou were never drear: If shadows never immed your star-lit eyes, If songs were always yours and never sighs; You, Pyrrha, too, would be as much a bore As other folks, and I don't know but more. ___James Willis Gleed
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