Bluebird and robin then
Shall sing your requiem.
The moon shall laugh at your defeat, the teasing winds deride;
For your icicles on eaves
Shall dance the happy leaves
And the bayonets of the daffodils thrust all your frosts aside.
For while the stars endure
This sweet truth standeth sure,—
That life is ever lord of death, and love o’ercometh hate.
So, though the months seem long,