When Sparrows Build And The Leaves Break

Such A Slender Moon, Going Up And Up, Waxing So Fast From Night To Night, And Swelling Like An Orange Flower-bud, Bright, Fated, Methought, To Round As To A Golden Cup, And Hold To My Two Lips Life's Best Of Wine.

It Is Not Reason Which Makes Faith Hard, But Life.

Her Face Betokened All Things Dear And Good, The Light Of Somewhat Yet To Come Was There Asleep, And Waiting For The Opening Day, When Childish Thoughts, Like Flowers Would Drift Away.

How Short Our Happy Days Appear! How Long The Sorrowful!

From Henceforth Thou Shalt Learn That There Is Love To Long For, Pureness To Desire, A Mount Of Consecration It Were Good To Scale.