God makes sech nights, all white an' still, Fur'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

It ain't by princerples nor men My preudunt course is steadied- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

My gran'ther's rule was safer 'n 'tis to crow: Don't never prophesy-onless ye know.

I don't believe in princerple, But oh I du in interest.

The dews of summer nights did fall, The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall And many an oak that grew thereby.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break As down he bears before the gale.

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.