Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone

Do Diddle Di Do, Poor Jim Jay Got Stuck Fast In Yesterday.

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.

As Long As I Live I Shall Always Be My Self - And No Other, Just Me.

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.

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