Earth And High Heaven Are Fixed Of

The Fairies Break Their Dances And Leave The Printed Lawn.

Here Dead Lie We Because We Did Not Choose To Live And Shame The Land From Which We Sprung. Life, To Be Sure, Is Nothing Much To Lose; But Young Men Think It Is, And We Were Young.

On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble;his Forest Fleece The Wrekin Heaves;the Wind It Plies The Saplings Double, And Thick On Severn Snow The Leaves.

'tis Spring; Come Out To Ramble The Hilly Brakes Around, For Under Thorn And Bramble About The Hollow Ground The Primroses Are Found. And There's The Windflower Chilly With All The Winds At Play, And There's The Lenten Lily That Has Not Long To Stay And Dies On Easter Day.

Now, Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again.