Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad

When I Lie Where Shades Of Darkness Shall No More Assail Mine Eyes.

His Brow Is Seamed With Line And Scar; His Cheek Is Red And Dark As Wine; The Fires As Of A Northern Star Beneath His Cap Of Sable Shine. His Right Hand, Bared Of Leathern Glove, Hangs Open Like An Iron Gin, You Stoop To See His Pulses Move, To Hear The Blood Sweep Out And In. He Looks Some King, So Solitary In Earnest Thought He Seems To Stand, As If Across A Lonely Sea He Gazed Impatient Of The Land. Out Of The Noisy Centuries The Foolish And The Fearful Fade; Yet Burn Unquenched These Warrior Eyes, Time Hath Not Dimmed, Nor Death Dismayed.

So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

As Soon As They're Out Of Your Sight, You Are Out Of Their Mind.

Now That Cleverness Was The Fashion Most People Were Clever - Even Perfect Fools; And Cleverness After All Was Often Only A Bore: All Head And No Body