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.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

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.

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

O month when they who love must love and wed.

Who longest wait of all surely wins.