So Dull And Dark Are The November

I Long For Scenes Where Man Has Never Trod; A Place Where Woman Never Smil'd Or Wept; There To Abide With My Creator, God, And Sleep As I In Childhood Sweetly Slept: Untroubling And Untroubled Where I Lie; The Grass Below--above The Vaulted Sky.

In Mid-wood Silence, Thus, How Sweet To Be; Where All The Noises, That On Peace Intrude, Come From The Chittering Cricket, Bird, And Bee, Whose Songs Have Charms To Sweeten Solitude.

Still, I Have Been No One's Enemy But My Own. My Easy Nature, Either In Drinking Or Anything Else, Was Always Ready To Submit To Persuasions Of Profligate Companions, Who Often Led Me Into Snares.

When Trouble Haunts Me, Need I Sigh?no, Rather Smile Away Despair

While Snow The Window-panes Bedim, The Fire Curls Up A Sunny Charm, Where, Creaming O'er The Pitcher's Rim, The Flowering Ale Is Set To Warm; Mirth, Full Of Joy As Summer Bees, Sits There, Its Pleasures To Impart, And Children, 'tween Their Parent's Knees, Sing Scraps Of Carols O'er By Heart.