When I Am Dead, My Dearest, Sing

Let Bygones Be Bygones.

And All Winds Go Sighing For Sweet Things Dying.

The Violets Whisper From The Shade Which Their Own Leaves Have Made: Men Scent Our Fragrance On The Air, Yet Take No Heed Of Humble Lessons We Would Read.

This Life Is But The Passage Of A Day, This Life Is But A Pang And All Is Over; But In The Life To Come Which Fades Not Away Every Love Shall Abide And Every Lover.

Christmas Hath A Darkness; Brighter Than The Blazing Noon; Christmas Hath A Chillness Warmer Than The Heat Of June, Christmas Hath A Beauty Lovelier Than The World Can Show: For Christmas Bringeth Jesus, Brought For Us So Low