All I want is to be the happy-go-lucky type
But somehow it creeps inside me and makes me want to run away from everything
Why am I like this?
Why can't I be like what I dream to be?
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.