“From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea”
“For winter's rains and ruins are over,/ And all the season of snows and sins;/ The days dividing lover and lover,/ The light that loses, the night that wins.”
“When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,/ The mother of months in meadow or plain/ Fills the shadows and windy places/ With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain . . .”
