The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest

The Summer Day Is Closed - The Sun Is Set: Well They Have Done Their Office, Those Bright Hours, The Latest Of Whose Train Goes Softly Out In The Red West. The Green Blade Of The Ground Has Risen, And Herds Have Cropped It; The Young Twig Has Spread Its Plaited Tissues To The Sun; Flowers Of The Garden And The Waste Have Blown And Withered; Seeds Have Fallen Upon The Soil, From Bursting Cells, And In Their Graves Await Their Resurrection. Insects From The Pools Have Filled The Air Awhile With Humming Wings, That Now Are Still For Ever; Painted Moths Have Wandered The Blue Sky, And Died Again

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

Come When The Rains Have Glazed The Snow And Clothed The Trees With Ice, While The Slant Sun Of February Pours Into The Bowers A Flood Of Light. Approach! The Incrusted Surface Shall Upbear Thy Steps And The Broad Arching Portals Of The Grove Welcome Thy Entering.

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

But Winter Has Yet Brighter Scenes-he Boasts Splendors Beyond What Gorgeous Summer Knows; Or Autumn With His Many Fruits, And Woods All Flushed With Many Hues.