The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.

My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night.

So sweet love seemed that April morn, when first we kissed beside the thorn, so strangely sweet, it was not strange we thought that love could never change.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

When Death to either shall come - I pray it be first to me.

Unto us all our days are love's anniversaries, each one In turn hath ripened something of our happiness.

Beauty, the eternal Spouse of the Wisdom of God and Angel of his Presence thru' all creation.