Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The

For Beauty With Sorrow Is A Burden Hard To Be Borne: The Evening Light On The Foam, And The Swans, There; That Music, Remote, Forlorn.

And Some Win Peace Who Spend The Skill Of Words To Sweeten Despair Of Finding Consolation Where Life Has But One Dark End.

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

Once A Man Strays Out Of The Common Herd, He's More Likely To Meet Wolves In The Thickets Than Angels.

Now That Cleverness Was The Fashion Most People Were Clever - Even Perfect Fools; And Cleverness After All Was Often Only A Bore: All Head And No Body