Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For

When I Lie Where Shades Of Darkness Shall No More Assail Mine Eyes.

As Soon As They're Out Of Your Sight, You Are Out Of Their Mind.

All Day Long The Door Of The Sub-conscious Remains Just Ajar; We Slip Through To The Other Side, And Return Again, As Easily And Secretly As A Cat.

God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human Brain Works Slowly; First The Blow, Hours Afterwards The Bruise.

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.