Round The World And Home

Soul's Castle Fell At One Blast Of Temptation, But Many A Worm Had Pierced The Foundation.

Ring-ting! I Wish I Were A Primrose, A Bright Yellow Primrose Blowing In The Spring! The Stooping Boughs Above Me, The Wandering Bee To Love Me, The Fern And Moss To Creep Across, And The Elm-tree For Our King!

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

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods, And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt, And Night By Night The Monitory Blast Wails In The Key-hole, Telling How It Pass'd O'er Empty Fields, Or Upland Solitudes, Or Grim Wide Wave; And Now The Power Is Felt Of Melancholy, Tenderer In Its Moods Than Any Joy Indulgent Summer Dealt.

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