Turn The Key Deftly In

I Love Your Hills And I Love Your Dales, And I Love Your Flocks A-bleating; But Oh, On The Heather To Lie Together, With Both Our Hearts A-beating!

How Sad It Is When A Luxurious Imagination Is Obliged In Self Defense To Deaden Its Delicacy In Vulgarity, And Riot In Things Attainable That It May Not Have Leisure To Go Mad After Things That Are Not.

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone!

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.