I Am Sailing With Thee Through The

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

Asleep In Lap Of Legends Old.

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another

The Public - A Thing I Cannot Help Looking Upon As An Enemy, And Which I Cannot Address Without Feelings Of Hostility.