Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red,

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

It Was A Pity Thoughts Always Ran The Easiest Way, Like Water In Old Ditches.

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

The Sandy Cat By The Farmer's Chair Mews At His Knee For Dainty Fare; Old Rover In His Moss-greened House Mumbles A Bone, And Barks At A Mouse. In The Dewy Fields The Cattle Lie Chewing The Cud 'neath A Fading Sky; Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone Is Another Summer's Day.

He Got Out Of Bed And Peeped Through The Blinds. To The East And Opposite To Him Gardens And An Apple-orchard Lay, And There In Strange Liquid Tranquility Hung The Morning Star, And Rose, Rilling Into The Dusk Of Night The First Grey Of Dawn. The Street Beneath Its Autumn Leaves Was Vacant, Charmed, Deserted.