By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.

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.

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.