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Out of the fragrant heart of bloom, The bobolinks are singing; Out of the fragrant heart of bloom The apple-tree whispers to the room, "Why art thou but a nest of gloom While the bobolinks are singing?"

Commemoration of Theodore of Tarsus, Archbishop of Canterbury, 690 If I lay waste and wither up with doubt The blessed fields of heaven where once my Faith possessed itself serenely safe from death; If I deny things past finding out; Or if I orphan my own soul from One That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in Power and Grace, What do I gain by what I have undone?

The little wind that hardly shook The silver of the sleeping brook Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- A mystery of mysteries. So he must often pause, and stoop, An all the wanton ringlets loop Behind her dainty ear--emprise Of slow event and many sighs.

Some people can stay longer in an hour than others can in a week.

Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs?