In the darkest brains of this tune,
Wine in dance with memories of the dying souls,
The sick trains waving on the rails,
Saying Hi! To our weary and shivering souls,
...
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.