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For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,-- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.

When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.

"O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells."

All summer she scattered the daisy leaves; They only mocked her as they fell. She said: "The daisy but deceives; 'He loves me not,' 'he loves me will,' One story no two daisies tell." Ah foolish heart, which waits and grieves Under the daisy's mocking spell.

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again In babyhood.

Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!

O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!

O month when they who love must love and wed.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.