Consider The Lilies Of The Field Whose

Hurt No Living Thing: Ladybird, Nor Butterfly, Nor Moth With Dusty Wing.

January Cold And Desolate; February Dripping Wet; March Wind Ranges; April Changes; Birds Sing In Tune To Flowers Of May, And Sunny June Brings Longest Day; In Scorched July The Storm-clouds Fly, Lightning-torn; August Bears Corn, September Fruit; In Rough October Earth Must Disrobe Her; Stars Fall And Shoot In Keen November; And Night Is Long And Cold Is Strong In Bleak December.

For I Am Bound With Fleshly Bands, Joy, Beauty, Lie Beyond My Scope; I Strain My Heart, I Stretch My Hands, And Catch At Hope.

Not As She Is, But As She Fills His Dream

Let Bygones Be Bygones.