God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale

Still Sweet With Blossoms Is The Year's Fresh Prime.

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.

Winning Isn't Everything, But It Beats Anything In Second Place.

I Grieve For Life's Bright Promise, Just Shown And Then Withdrawn.