Let Bygones Be Bygones.

And All Winds Go Sighing For Sweet Things Dying.

As A Tree My Sin Stands To Darken All Lands; Death Is The Fruit It Bore.

The Lilies Say: Behold How We Preach Without Words Of Purity.

Why One Day In The Country Is Worth A Month In Town; Is Worth A Day And A Year Of The Dusty, Musty, Lag-last Fashion That Days Drone Elsewhere.

The Bourne Underneath The Growing Grass, Underneath The Living Flowers, Deeper Than The Sound Of Showers: There We Shall Not Count The Hours By The Shadows As They Pass. Youth And Health Will Be But Vain, Beauty Reckoned Of No Worth: There A Very Little Girth Can Hold Round What Once The Earth Seemed Too Narrow To Contain.