Good God, The Souls Of All My

Yon Grey Lines That Fret The Clouds Are Messengers Of Day.

An Old Black Ram Is Tupping Your White Ewe

On The Bat’s Back I Do Fly After Summer Merrily.

What's The Newest Grief? Each Minute Tunes A New One.

No Villainous Bounty Yet Hath Passed My Heart; Unwisely, Not Ignobly, Have I Given.