The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

White In The Moon The Long Road Lies, The Moon Stands Blank Above; White In The Moon The Long Road Lies That Leads Me From My Love. Still Hangs The Hedge Without A Gust, Still, Still The Shadows Stay: My Feet Upon The Moonlit Dust Pursue The Ceaseless Way. The World Is Round, So Travellers Tell, And Straight Through Reach The Track, Trudge On, Trudge On, 'twill All Be Well, The Way Will Guide One Back. But Ere The Circle Homeward Hies Far, Far Must It Remove: White In The Moon The Long Road Lies That Leads Me From My Love.

With Rue My Heart Is Laden For Golden Friends I Had, For Many A Rose-lipped Maiden And Many A Lightfoot Lad.

Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much Good, But Much Less Good Than Ill, And While The Sun And Moon Endure Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure, I'd Face It As A Wise Man Would, And Train For Ill And Not For Good.

But If You Ever Come To A Road Where Danger; Or Guilt Or Anguish Or Shame's To Share. Be Good To The Lad Who Loves You True, And The Soul That Was Born To Die For You; And Whistle And I'll Be There.

You Smile Upon Your Friend To-day, To-day His Ills Are Over; You Hearken To The Lover's Say, And Happy Is The Lover. 'tis Late To Hearken, Late To Smile, But Better Late Than Never: I Shall Have Lived A Little While Before I Die For Ever.