So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

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

Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Brier's Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are-- Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

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

Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone Is Another Summer's Day.

A Lost But Happy Dream May Shed Its Light Upon Our Waking Hours, And The Whole Day May Be Infected With The Gloom Of A Dreary Or Sorrowful One; Yet Of Neither May We Be Able To Recover A Trace.