One Day In The Country Is Worth

O Passing Angel, Speed Me With A Song, A Melody Of Heaven To Reach My Heart And Rouse Me To The Race And Make Me Strong.

Hope Is Like A Hairball Trembling From Its Birth.

Were There No God, We Would Be In This Glorious World With Grateful Hearts, And No One To Thank.

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.

A Pin Has A Head, But Has No Hair