duhr 'm din for old Gloatsdane’s glorification and the hempty times and times and the mainsay of our noctumefield, night’s sweetmoztheart, their Carmen Sylvae, my quest, my queen. Lou must wail to cool me airly! Coil me curly, warbler dear! May song it flourish (in the Nut, in the oxsight of Iren, under all my easyfree trans- lation of the Ag- apemonides, he is fundementially theosophagusted over the head bowed on him poorin sweat the juggaleer’s veins (quench his quill!) in his eye than was less after lives