Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company

Ring-ting! I Wish I Were A Primrose, A Bright Yellow Primrose Blowing In The Spring! The Stooping Boughs Above Me, The Wandering Bee To Love Me, The Fern And Moss To Creep Across, And The Elm-tree For Our King!

O Spirit Of The Summertime! Bring Back The Roses To The Dells; The Swallow From Her Distant Clime, The Honey-bee From Drowsy Cells. Bring Back The Friendship Of The Sun; The Gilded Evenings, Calm And Late, When Merry Children Homeward Run, And Peeping Stars Bid Lovers Wait. Bring Back The Singing; And The Scent Of Meadowlands At Dewy Prime;- Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summertime!

Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summer-time!

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?