Oh, Pity The Poor Glutton Whose Troubles

What A Haunting, Inescapable Riddle Life Was.

As Soon As They're Out Of Your Sight, You Are Out Of Their Mind.

Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Brier's Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are-- Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely, Every Hour

Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The Night In Her Silver Shoon.