Then You've A Hunch What The Music

The Lonely Sunsets Flare Forlorn Down Valleys Dreadly Desolate; The Lonely Mountains Soar In Scorn As Still As Death, As Stern As Fate.

And Each Forgets, As He Strips And Runs With A Brilliant, Fitful Pace, It's The Steady, Quiet, Plodding Ones Who Win In The Lifelong Race. And Each Forgets That His Youth Has Fled, Forgets That His Prime Is Past, Till He Stands One Day, With A Hope That's Dead, In The Glare Of The Truth At Last.

Just Draw On Your Grit; It's So Easy To Quit - It's The Keeping Your Chin Up That's Hard.

Old Year! Upon The Stage Of Time You Stand To Bow Your Last Adieu; A Moment, And The Prompter's Chime Will Ring The Curtain Down On You.

I Have An Intense Dislike For Artificial Society. In France, One Could Lead A Free Life - To Do What One Wanted To Do Without Interference Or Criticism From One's Neighbors.