Rest, Rest At The Heart's Core .

The Rose Saith In The Dewy Morn, I Am Most Fair; Yet All My Loveliness Is Born Upon A Thorn.

And All Winds Go Sighing For Sweet Things Dying.

My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird Whose Nest Is In A Water'd Shoot; My Heart Is Like An Apple-tree Whose Boughs Are Bent With Thick-set Fruit.

Why One Day In The Country Is Worth A Month In Town; Is Worth A Day And A Year Of The Dusty, Musty, Lag-last Fashion That Days Drone Elsewhere.

And May You Happy Live, And Long Us Bless.