When April pours the colors of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,
We shall live well -- we shall live very well. -- Elinor Wylie

*

BITS

There once were ones, now dead as Napier's bones,
Who, once they'd reached the right-foot little toe,
Had barely got the sheep down past the teens,
But you can toggle off a million beans,
Add five percent, and still be home for tea.
A *software artist*! That's a thing to be
(Trade-jargon with lascivious overtones)!
Another (string, hell!) fiddle for your bow!