It's Strange That Those We Miss The

And London Shops On Christmas Eve Are Strung With Silver Bells And Flowers As Hurrying Clerks The City Leave To Pigeon-haunted Classic Towers, And Marbled Clouds Go Scudding By The Many-steepled London Sky

Oh! Full Surrey Twilight! Importunate Band! Oh! Strongly Adorable Tennis-girl's Hand!

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

Now If The Harvest Is Over, And The World Cold, Give Me The Bonus Of Laughter, As I Lose Hold.

Lord, Reserve For Me A Crown, And Do Not Let My Shares Go Down.