His Are The Quiet Steeps Of Dreamland,

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.

Oh, Pity The Poor Glutton Whose Troubles All Begin In Struggling On And On To Turn What's Out Into What's In.

He Got Out Of Bed And Peeped Through The Blinds. To The East And Opposite To Him Gardens And An Apple-orchard Lay, And There In Strange Liquid Tranquility Hung The Morning Star, And Rose, Rilling Into The Dusk Of Night The First Grey Of Dawn. The Street Beneath Its Autumn Leaves Was Vacant, Charmed, Deserted.

Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

It Was A Pity Thoughts Always Ran The Easiest Way, Like Water In Old Ditches.