Noon - Is The Hinge Of Day-.

We Turn Not Older With Years But Newer Every Day.

How Strange That Nature Does Not Knock, And Yet Does Not Intrude!

Victory Comes Late-- And Is Held Low To Freezing Lips-- Too Rapt With Frost To Take It

To See The Summer Sky Is Poetry, Though Never In A Book It Lie— True Poems Flee—

Unable Are The Loved To Die, For Love Is Immortality.