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.

Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self.

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

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.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

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.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.