Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.

A poem round and perfect as a star.

The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.

Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

Yet through all, we know this tangled skein is in the hands of One, Who sees the end from the beginning: He shall unravel all.

How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.