I’d rather listen to a flute In Gotham, than a band in Butte

When you’re away, I’m restless, lonely, Wretched, bored, dejected; only Here’s the rub, my darling dear, I feel the same when you are here.

Oh, how various is the scene Allowed to Man for his demesne!

Four of us together dwell— Two from Heaven and two from Hell; Four of us under the selfsame sky— Love and Death and a Dream and I.

The dead they sleep a long, long sleep; The dead they rest, and their rest is deep; The dead have peace, but the living weep.

When trouble drives me into rhyme, Which is two-thirds of all the time, What peace a thought like this can give— Great is the age in which we live!

You buy some flowers for your table; You tend them tenderly as you’re able; You fetch them water from hither and thither— What thanks do you get for it all? They wither.