For My Part, Getting Up

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

Some Dreams We Have Are Nothing Else But Dreams, Unnatural And Full Of Contradictions; Yet Others Of Our Most Romantic Schemes, Are Something More Than Fictions.

I Remember, I Remember The Roses, Red And White, The Violets, And The Lily-cups, Those Flowers Made Of Light! The Lilacs, Where The Robin Built, And Where My Brother Set The Laburmum On His Birthday,- The Tree Is Living Yet.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?