I Have Nothing To Speak

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

A Man's Life Of Any Worth Is A Continual Allegory, And Very Few Eyes Can See The Mystery Of His Life, A Life Like The Scriptures, Figurative.

Dry Your Eyes O Dry Your Eyes, For I Was Taught In Paradise To Ease My Breast Of Melodies.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.