Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The

A Face Peered. All The Grey Night In Chaos Of Vacancy Shone; Nought But Vast Sorrow Was There The Sweet Cheat Gone.

What A Haunting, Inescapable Riddle Life Was.

Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad For Him He Lags The Long Bright Morning Through, Ever So Tired Of Nothing To Do.

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.