God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human

Oh, Pity The Poor Glutton Whose Troubles All Begin In Struggling On And On To Turn What's Out Into What's In.

So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

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.

It Was A Pity Thoughts Always Ran The Easiest Way, Like Water In Old Ditches.

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