These Little Songs, Found Here And There, Floating In Air By Forest And Lea, Or Hill-Side Heather, In Houses And Throngs, Or Down By The Sea, Have Come Together, How, I Can't Tell: But I Know Full Well No Witty Goose-Wing On An Inkstand Begot 'Em; Remember Each Place And Moment Of Grace, In Summer Or Spring, Winter Or Autumn By Sun, Moon, Stars, Or A Coal In The Bars, In Market Or Church, Graveyard Or Dance, When They Came Without Search, Were Found As By Chance. A Word, A Line, You May Say Are Mine; But The Best In The Songs, Whatever It Be, To You, And To Me, And To No One Belongs