Lenore25 Feb 2004

If but a friendly hint be thrown,
Tis easier then to feel one's way.
I'm weary of this dry pedantic tone,
And must again the genuine Devil play.

Yet, ripening from within,
The kernal brown swells fast ;
It seeks the air to win,
Its seeks the sun at last.

With joy it bursts its thrall,
The shell must needs give way ;
Tis thus your coilings fall
Before thy feet, each day.