I Know The Lands Are Lit, With

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

That Indescribable Expression Peculiar To People Who Hope They Have Not Been Asleep, But Know They Have.

O May, Sweet-voice One, Going Thus Before, Forever June May Pour Her Warm Red Wine Of Life And Passions,--sweeter Days Are Thine!

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.

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.