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

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.

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.

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

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.