What holy cities are to nomadic tribes - a symbol of race and a bond of union - great books are to the wandering souls of men: they are the Meccas of the mind.
G.E. Woodberry
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Blueberry Hill
I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill
On Blueberry Hill where I found you
The moon stood still on Blueberry Hill
And lingered till my dreams came true
The wind in the willow played
Love's sweet melody
But all of those vows we made
Were never to be
Tho' we're apart you're part of me still
For you were my thrill on Blueberry Hill
The wind in the willow played
Love's sweet melody
But all of those vows we made
Were never to be
Tho' we're apart you're part of me still
For you were my thrill on Blueberry Hill