I Cannot See The Short, White Curls

What Is This Life If, Full Of Care, We Have No Time To Stand And Stare. No Time To Stand Beneath The Boughs And Stare As Long As Sheep Or Cows. No Time To See, When Woods We Pass, Where Squirrels Hide Their Nuts In Grass. No Time To See, In Broad Daylight, Streams Full Of Stars, Like Skies At Night. No Time To Turn At Beauty's Glance, And Watch Her Feet, How They Can Dance. No Time To Wait Till Her Mouth Can Enrich That Smile Her Eyes Began. A Poor Life This If, Full Of Care, We Have No Time To Stand And Stare.

But Cats To Me Are Strange, So Strange I Cannot Sleep If One Is Near.

Peace To These Little Broken Leaves, That Strew Our Common Ground; That Chase Their Tails, Like Silly Dogs, As They Go Round And Round. For Though In Winter Boughs Are Bare, Let Us Not Once Forget Their Summer Glory, When These Leaves Caught The Great Sun In Their Strong Net; And Made Him, In The Lower Air, Tremble - No Bigger Than A Star!

What Sweet, What Happy Days Had I,when Dreams Made Time Eternity!

I Cannot See The Short, White Curls Upon The Forehead Of An Ox, But What I See Them Dripping With That Poor Thing's Blood, And Hear The Ax; When I See Calves And Lambs, I See Them Led To Death; I See No Bird Or Rabbit Cross The Open Field But What A Sudden Shot Is Heard; A Shout That Tells Me Men Aim True, For Death Or Wound, Doth Chill Me Through.