He Is Not Dead, He Is Just

O'er Folded Blooms On Swirls Of Musk, The Beetle Booms Adown The Glooms And Bumps Along The Dusk.

And The Sun Had On A Crown Wrought Of Gilded Thistledown, And A Scarf Of Velvet Vapor And A Raveled Rainbow Gown; And His Tinsel-tangled Hair Tossed And Lost Upon The Air Was Glossier And Flossier Than Any Anywhere.

Who Bides His Time Tastes The Sweet Of Honey In The Saltiest Tear; And Though He Fares With Slowest Feet Joy Runs To Meet Him Drawing Near.

Continuous, Unflagging Effort, Persistence And Determination Will Win. Let Not The Man Be Discouraged Who Has These.

But The Air's So Appetizin'; And The Landscape Through The Haze Of A Crisp And Sunny Morning Of The Airly Autumn Days Is A Pictur' That No Painter Has The Colorin' To Mock-when The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.