O Month When They Who Love Must

Stain My Eyes As I May, On All Sides All Is Black.

I Know The Lands Are Lit, With All The Autumn Blaze Of Goldenrod.

But All Lost Things Are In The Angels' Keeping, Love; No Past Is Dead For Us, But Only Sleeping, Love; The Years Of Heaven With All Earth's Little Pain Make Good Together There We Can Begin Again, In Babyhood.

Who Longest Waits Most Surely Wins.

Motherhood Is Priced Of God, At Price No Man May Dare To Lessen Or Misunderstand.