Every tear is answered by a blossom, Every sigh with songs and laughter blent, April-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content.

Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs--and that is all.

Every tear is answered by a blossom, Every sigh with songs and laughter blent, April-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content.

Every day is a fresh beginning; Listen my soul, to the glad refrain, And in spite of old sorrow… and possible pain, Take heart with the day and begin again.

...this pause of rest, This morning hush before the sun.

All green and fair the summer lies, Just budded from the bud of spring, With tender blue of wistful skies, And winds that softly sing.

True love is not selfish. In time it accustoms itself to anything which secures happiness for its object.