When I Lie Where Shades Of Darkness

Oh, Pity The Poor Glutton Whose Troubles All Begin In Struggling On And On To Turn What's Out Into What's In.

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.

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.

Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red, Rode Their Horses Up To Bed.

So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.