Strange How Few, After Alls Said And

Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before

I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.

And He Whose Soul Is Flat -- The Sky Will Cave In On Him By And By.

I Dread No More The First White In My Hair, Or Even Age Itself, The Easy Shoe, The Cane, The Wrinkled Hands, The Special Chair: Time, Doing This To Me, May Alter Too My Anguish, Into Something I Can Bear

Oh, Children, Growing Up To Be Adventurers Into Sophistry, Forbear, Forbear To Be Of Those That Read The Rood To Learn The Rose.