O Month When They Who Love Must

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.

On The King's Gate The Moss Grew Gray;the King Came Not. They Called Him Deadand Made His Eldest Son One Dayslave In His Father's Stead.

O Sweet, Delusive Noon, Which The Morning Climbs To Find, O Moment Sped Too Soon, And Morning Left Behind.

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last; And Fast As It Is Driven From One Field Unfurls It In Another, Never Admitting That There Is A Shade Less Honor In The Second Field Than In The First, Or In The Third Than In The Second.

The Goldenrod Is Yellow, The Corn Is Turning Brown, The Trees In Apple Orchards With Fruit Are Bending Down.