Very Old Are The Woods; And The

For Beauty With Sorrow Is A Burden Hard To Be Borne: The Evening Light On The Foam, And The Swans, There; That Music, Remote, Forlorn.

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

Tell Them I Came, And No One Answered, That I Kept My Word," He Said. Never The Least Stir Made The Listeners, Though Every Word He Spake Fell Echoing Through The Shadowiness Of The Still House From The One Man Left Awake: Ay, They Heard His Foot Upon The Stirrup, And The Sound Of Iron On Stone, And How The Silence Surged Softly Backward, When The Plunging Hoofs Were Gone.

Once A Man Strays Out Of The Common Herd, He's More Likely To Meet Wolves In The Thickets Than Angels.

Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone Is Another Summer's Day.