Ah, now this happy month is gone,
Not now, my heart, complain,
Nor rail at Time because so soon
He takes his own again.
He takes his own, the weeks, the hours,
But leaves the best with thee;
Seeds of imperishable flowers
In fields of memory.
More verses by Robert Laurence Binyon
- As In The Dusty Lane To Fern Or Flower
- Beautifully Dies The Year
- Come Back, Sweet Yesterdays!
- How Dark, How Quiet Sleeps The Vale Below
- In The Shadow Of A Broken House
