'twas Easter-sunday. The Full-blossomed Trees Filled All

Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining.

All Things Must Change To Something New, To Something Strange.

All Was Ended Now, The Hope, And The Fear And The Sorrow, All The Aching Of The Heart, The Restless, Unsatisfied Longing, All The Dull, Deep Pain, And Constant Anguish Of Patience!

Whatever Hath Been Written Shall Remain, Nor Be Erased Nor Written O'er Again; The Unwritten Only Still Belongs To Thee: Take Heed, And Ponder Well What That Shall Be.

As I Gaze Upon The Sea! All The Old Romantic Legends, All My Dreams, Come Back To Me.