On The King's Gate The Moss Grew

Who Waits Until The Wind Shall Silent Keep Will Never Find The Ready Hour To Sow.

Now And Then One Sees A Face Which Has Kept Its Smile Pure And Undefiled. Such A Smile Transfigures; Such A Smile, If The Artful But Know It, Is The Greatest Weapon A Face Can Have.

By All These Lovely Tokens September Days Are Here, With Summer's Best Of Weather And Autumn's Best Of Cheer.

I Shall Be Found With 'indians' Engraved On My Brain When I Am Dead. A Fire Has Been Kindled Within Me, Which Will Never Go Out.

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.