W'en You See A Man In Woe,

Seek Not For Fresher Founts Afar, Just Drop You Bucket Where You Are.

The Woods Were Made For The Hunters Of Dreams, The Brooks For The Fisher Of Song; To The Hunters Who Hunt For The Gunless Game The Streams And The Woods Belong. There Are Thoughts That Moan From The Soul Of The Pine And Thoughts In A Flower-bell Curled; And The Thoughts That Are Blown With The Scent Of The Fern Are As New And As Old As The World.

A Hundred Thousand Men Were Led By One Calf Near Three Centuries Dead; They Followed Still His Crooked Way And Lost A Hundred Years A Day; For Thus Such Reverence Is Lent To Well Established Precedent.

The Woods Were Made For The Hunters Of Dreams, The Brooks For The Fishers Of Song; To The Hunters Who Hunt For The Gunless Game The Streams And The Woods Belong.

Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are.