The Wombat Is A Joy, A Triumph,

The Sea Hath No King But God Alone.

Her Hair That Lay Along Her Back Was Yellow Like Ripe Corn.

And Love, Our Light At Night And Shade At Noon,lulls Us To Rest With Songs, And Turns Awayall Shafts Of Shelterless Tumultuous Day.

Look In My Face; My Name Is Might-have-been; I Am Also Call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell.

This Sunlight Shames November Where He Grieves In Dead Red Leaves, And Will Not Let Him Shun The Day, Though Bough With Bough Be Overrun. But With A Blessing Every Glade Receives High Salutation.