Comes the still voice of the morrow revealing
Inscrutable valorous hope—and is gone.
Therefore is joy more than sorrow, foreseeing
The lust of the mind and the lure of the eye
And the pride of the hand have their hour of triumph,
But the dream of the heart will endure by-and-by.
AFOOT
There's a garden in the South
Where the early violets come,
Where they strew the floor of April