I Know The Lands Are Lit, With

O Month When They Who Love Must Love And Wed.

Nothing Can Be So Bad As To Be Displeased With One's Self.

But All Lost Things Are In The Angels' Keeping, Love; No Past Is Dead For Us, But Only Sleeping, Love; The Years Of Heaven With All Earth's Little Pain Make Good Together There We Can Begin Again, In Babyhood.

Great Loves, To The Last, Have Pulses Red; All Great Loves That Have Ever Died Dropped Dead.

Who Longest Wait Of All Surely Wins.