Next Time!' In What Calendar Are Kept

O Sweet, Delusive Noon, Which The Morning Climbs To Find, O Moment Sped Too Soon, And Morning Left Behind.

O Winter! Frozen Pulse And Heart Of Fire, What Loss Is Theirs Who From Thy Kingdom Turn Dismayed, And Think Thy Snow A Sculptured Urn Of Death! Far Sooner In Midsummer Tire The Streams Than Under Ice. June Could Not Hire Her Roses To Forego The Strength They Learn In Sleeping On Thy Breast.

There Is Nothing So Skillful In Its Own Defense As Imperious Pride.

When Love Is At Its Best, One Loves So Much That He Cannot Forget.

On The King's Gate The Moss Grew Gray;the King Came Not. They Called Him Deadand Made His Eldest Son One Dayslave In His Father's Stead.