Let Bygones Be Bygones.

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.

O Lord, Who Art Our Guide Even Unto Death, Grant Us, I Pray Thee, Grace To Follow Thee Whithersoever Thou Goest. In Little Daily Duties To Which Thou Callest Us, Bow Down Our Wills To Simple Obedience.

Why Does The Sea Moan Evermore? Shut Out From Heaven It Makes Its Moan, It Frets Against The Boundary Shore; All Earth's Full Rivers Cannot Fill The Sea, That Drinking Thirsteth Still.

Does The Road Wind Up-hill All The Way? Yes, To The Very End.

Where Are The Songs I Used To Know, Where Are The Notes I Used To Sing? I Have Forgotten Everything I Used To Know So Long Ago. ("the Key-note")