Father, I Beg Of Thee A Little

Night Falls Fast. Today Is In The Past.

Life Must Go On; I Forget Just Why.

Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before

Not Poppy, Nor Mandrake, Nor All The Drowsy Syrups Of The World, Shall Ever Medicine Thee To That Sweet Sleep, Which Thou Owest Yesterday.

Here's A Song Was Never Sung: Growing Old Is Dying Young.