Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy

Well, Something Must Be Done For May, The Time Is Drawing Nigh-- To Figure In The Catalogue, And Woo The Public Eye. Something I Must Invent And Paint; But Oh My Wit Is Not Like One Of Those Kind Substantives That Answer Who And What?

She Stood Breast-high Amid The Corn Clasp'd By The Golden Light Of Morn, Like The Sweetheart Of The Sun, Who Many A Glowing Kiss Had Won.

I Remember, I Remember The Fir-trees Dark And High; I Used To Think Their Slender Tops Were Close Against The Sky; It Was A Childish Ignorance, But Now 't Is Little Joy To Know I'm Farther Off From Heaven Than When I Was A Boy.

I Remember, I Remember, The House Where I Was Born, The Little Window Where The Sun Came Peeping In At Morn.

For My Part, Getting Up Seems Not So Easy By Half As Lying.