All The Little Emptiness Of Love!

Blow Out, You Bugles, Over The Rich Dead! There's None Of These So Lonely And Poor Of Old, But, Dying, Has Made Us Rarer Gifts Than Gold.

Store Up Reservoirs Of Calm And Content And Draw On Them At Later Moments When The Source Isn't There, But The Need Is Very Great.

Love Is A Breach In The Walls, A Broken Gate, Love Sells The Proud Heart's Citadel To Fate.

Now, God Be Thanked Who Has Matched Us With His Hour, And Caught Our Youth, And Wakened Us From Sleeping, With Hand Made Sure, Clear Eye, And Sharpened Power, To Turn, As Swimmers Into Cleanness Leaping.

Stands The Church Clock At Ten To Three? And Is There Honey Still For Tea?