Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The

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

Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad For Him He Lags The Long Bright Morning Through, Ever So Tired Of Nothing To Do.

Without Imagination Of The One Kind Or Of The Other, Mortal Existence Is Indeed A Dreary And Prosaic Business... Illumined By The Imagination, Our Life, Whatever Its Defeats - Is A Never-ending Unforeseen Strangeness And Adventure And Mystery.

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

God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human Brain Works Slowly; First The Blow, Hours Afterwards The Bruise.