Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventful—then, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

Sin We Have Explain'd Away; Unluckily, The Sinners Stay.

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies Open, Writ In Blossoms.