O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

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

For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.

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.

Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.