And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.