The sun, this old November, </br> Across the sodden slope, </br> May bid the heart remember, </br> But cannot bid it hope. - Philip Henry Savage

"Something in the sense of morning </br> Lifts the heart up to the sun." </br> In our youth we may be pagan, </br> God is many, and the One </br> Great Supreme will wait till evening </br> When our little day is done.

Thou hoarse Aristophanic mime, </br> Grotesque Silenus of the slime, </br> That dar'st to lift a comic voice </br> Where thrushes worship and rejoice.

Lighter than dandelion down, </br> Or feathers from the white moth’s wing, </br> Out of the gates of bramble-town </br> The silkweed goes a-gypsying.