In Tragic Life, God Wot, No Villain

Full Lasting Is The Song, Though He, / The Singer, Passes.

I've Studied Men From My Topsy-turvy Close, And I Reckon, Rather True. Some Are Fine Fellows: Some, Right Scurvy; Most, A Dash Between The Two.

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.

Memoirs Are The Backstairs Of History.

In Tragic Life, God Wot, No Villain Need Be! Passions Spin The Plot: We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within.