When I have fears that I may cease to be,
Before my pen has gleaned my teening brain,
Before high-piled books,in charactery come to existence
Before my words steam from them pages opening ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
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