Does The Road Wind Up-hill All The

Oh Roses For The Flush Of Youth, And Laurel For The Perfect Prime; But Pluck An Ivy Branch For Me Grown Old Before My Time.

The City Mouse Lives In A House, The Garden Mouse Lives In A Bower

My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird Whose Nest Is In A Water'd Shoot; My Heart Is Like An Apple-tree Whose Boughs Are Bent With Thick-set Fruit; My Heart Is Like A Rainbow Shell That Paddles In A Halcyon Sea; My Heart Is Gladder Than All These, Because My Love Is Come To Me. Raise Me A Daïs Of Silk And Down; Hang It With Vair And Purple Dyes; Carve It In Doves And Pomegranates, And Peacocks With A Hundred Eyes; Work It In Gold And Silver Grapes, In Leaves And Silver Fleurs-de-lys; Because The Birthday Of My Life Is Come, My Love Is Come To Me.

Gone Were But The Winter, Come Were But The Spring, I Would Go To A Covert Where The Birds Sing; Where In The Whitethorn Singeth A Thrush, And A Robin Sings In The Holly-bush. Full Of Fresh Scents Are The Budding Boughs Arching High Over A Cool Green House: Full Of Sweet Scents, And Whispering Air Which Sayeth Softly: We Spread No Snare; Here Dwell In Safety, Here Dwell Alone, With A Clear Stream And A Mossy Stone. Here The Sun Shineth Most Shadily; Here Is Heard An Echo Of The Far Sea, Though Far Off It Be.

Tread Softly! All The Earth Is Holy Ground.