The Fields Have Eyes, And The Woods

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

In April The Sweet Showers Fall And Pierce The Drought Of March To The Root, And All The Veins Are Bathed In Liquor Of Such Power As Brings About The Engendering Of The Flower.

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

There Was The Murdered Corpse, In Covert Laid, And Violent Death In Thousand Shapes Displayed; The City To The Soldier's Rage Resigned; Successless Wars, And Poverty Behind; Ships Burnt In Fight, Or Forced On Rocky Shores, And The Rash Hunter Strangled By The Boars; The Newborn Babe By Nurses Overlaid; And The Cook Caught Within The Raging Fire He Made.

Strike While The Iron Is Hot.