Who Bides His Time Tastes

Think Of Him Still As The Same, I Say, He Is Not Dead, He Is Just - Away.

It Is No Use To Grumble And Complain; It's Just As Cheap And Easy To Rejoice; When God Sorts Out The Weather And Sends Rain - Why, Rain's My Choice.

Long About Knee-deep In June, 'bout The Time Strewberries Melts On The Vine.

As One Who Cons At Evening O'er An Album All Alone, And Muses On The Faces Of The Friends That He Has Known, So I Turn The Leaves Of Fancy, Till In Shadowy Design I Find The Smiling Features Of An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.

And The Sun Had On A Crown Wrought Of Gilded Thistledown, And A Scarf Of Velvet Vapor And A Raveled Rainbow Gown; And His Tinsel-tangled Hair Tossed And Lost Upon The Air Was Glossier And Flossier Than Any Anywhere.