Earth And High Heaven Are Fixed Of

But If You Ever Come To A Road Where Danger; Or Guilt Or Anguish Or Shame's To Share. Be Good To The Lad Who Loves You True, And The Soul That Was Born To Die For You; And Whistle And I'll Be There.

The Average Man, If He Meddles With Criticism At All, Is A Conservative Critic.

That Is The Land Of Lost Content, I See It Shining Plain, The Happy Highways Where I Went And Cannot Come Again.

Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying, What Tune The Enchantress Plays In Aftermaths Of Soft September Or Under Blanching Mays, For She And I Were Long Acquainted And I Knew All Her Ways.

And Silence Sounds No Worse Than Cheers After Earth Has Stopped The Ears.