Listen My Children And You Shall Hear,

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

Where, Twisted Round The Barren Oak, The Summer Vine In Beauty Clung, And Summer Winds The Stillness Broke, The Crystal Icicle Is Hung.

I Do Not Believe Anyone Can Be Perfectly Well, Who Has A Brain And A Heart

What Child Has A Heart To Sing In This Capricious Clime Of Ours, When Spring Comes Sailing In From The Sea, With Wet And Heavy Cloud-sails And The Misty Pennon Of The East-wind Nailed To The Mast.

O Flower-de-luce, Bloom On, And Let The River Linger To Kiss Thy Feet! O Flower Of Song, Bloom On, And Make Forever The World More Fair And Sweet.