Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone

What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

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.

Hi! Handsome Hunting Man Fire Your Little Gun. Bang! Now The Animal Is Dead And Dumb And Done. Nevermore To Peep Again, Creep Again, Leap Again, Eat Or Sleep Or Drink Again. Oh, What Fun!

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

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.