Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone

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

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.

A Lost But Happy Dream May Shed Its Light Upon Our Waking Hours, And The Whole Day May Be Infected With The Gloom Of A Dreary Or Sorrowful One; Yet Of Neither May We Be Able To Recover A Trace.

As Long As I Live I Shall Always Be My Self - And No Other, Just Me.

But Beauty Vanishes; Beauty Passes; However Rare Rare It Be; And When I Crumble, Who Will Remember This Lady Of The West Country?