Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.

Tell Them I Came, And No One Answered, That I Kept My Word," He Said. Never The Least Stir Made The Listeners, Though Every Word He Spake Fell Echoing Through The Shadowiness Of The Still House From The One Man Left Awake: Ay, They Heard His Foot Upon The Stirrup, And The Sound Of Iron On Stone, And How The Silence Surged Softly Backward, When The Plunging Hoofs Were Gone.

Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Brier's Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are-- Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

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

Once A Man Strays Out Of The Common Herd, He's More Likely To Meet Wolves In The Thickets Than Angels.