By God! I Will Not Tell You

Whiles In The Early Winter Eve We Pass Amid The Gathering Night Some Homestead That We Had To Leave Years Past; And See Its Candles Bright Shine In The Room Beside The Door Where We Were Merry Years Agone But Now Must Never Enter More, As Still The Dark Road Drives Us On. E'en So The World Of Men May Turn At Even Of Some Hurried Day And See The Ancient Glimmer Burn Across The Waste That Hath No Way; Then With That Faint Light In Its Eyes A While I Bid It Linger Near And Nurse In Wavering Memories The Bitter-sweet Of Days That Were.

I Half Wish That I Had Not Been Born With A Sense Of Romance And Beauty In This Accursed Age.

The Wind Is Not Helpless For Any Man's Need, Nor Falleth The Rain But For Thistle And Weed.

Slayer Of The Winter, Art Thou Here Again? O Welcome, Thou That Bring'st The Summer Nigh! The Bitter Wind Makes Not The Victory Vain. Nor Will We Mock Thee For Thy Faint Blue Sky.

If We Feel The Least Degradation In Being Amorous, Or Merry Or Hungry, Or Sleepy, We Are So Far Bad Animals & Miserable Men.