I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
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.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.