I Say The Very Things That Make

The Woods Were Made For The Hunters Of Dreams, The Brooks For The Fishers Of Song; To The Hunters Who Hunt For The Gunless Game The Streams And The Woods Belong.

Let Me Live In A House By The Side Of The Road And Be A Friend To Man.

There Are Hermit Souls That Live Withdrawn In The Place Of Their Self-content; There Are Souls Like Stars That Dwell Apart, In A Fellowless Firmament; There Are Pioneer Souls That Blaze Their Paths Where Highways Never Ran,-- But Let Me Live By The Side Of The Road, And Be A Friend To Man.

Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are.

There Are Purple Grapes In The Land Of Git-thare.