Night is the time to weep,To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of memory where sleepThe joys of other years.
Blue thou art, intensely blue; Flower, whence came thy dazzling hue?
Joys too exquisite to last, And yet more exquisite when past.
Songs of praise the angels sang, Heav'n with alleluias rang, when creation was begun, when God spoke and it was done.
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.
There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.