Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies

Scarcely A Tear To Shed; Hardly A Word To Say; The End Of A Summer's Day; Sweet Love Is Dead.

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

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

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.

Writing Is Learning To Say Nothing, More Cleverly Every Day.