The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Large trees give more shade than fruit

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.

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.

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

O month when they who love must love and wed.