In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

Commemoration Of Richard Meux Benson, Founder Of The Society Of St John The Evangelist, 1915 Our Critical Day Is Not The Very Day Of Our Death, But The Whole Course Of Our Life; I Thank Him, That Prays For Me When My Bell Tolls; But I Thank Him Much More, That Catechizes Me, Or Preaches To Me, Or Instructs Me How To Live.

The Phoenix Riddle Hath More Wit By Us, We Two Being One, Are It. So To One Neutral Thing Both Sexes Fit, We Die And Rise The Same, And Prove Mysterious By This Love.

God Himself Took A Day To Rest In, And A Good Man's Grave Is His Sabbath.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

God Made Sun And Moon To Distinguish The Seasons, And Day And Night; And We Cannot Have The Fruits Of The Earth But In Their Seasons. But God Hath Made No Decrees To Distinguish The Seasons Of His Mercies. In Paradise The Fruits Were Ripe The First Minute, And In Heaven It Is Always Autumn. His Mercies Are Ever In Their Maturity.