I send thee pansies while the year is young, Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night; Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light.

The pure, the beautiful, the bright, That stirred our hearts in youth, The impulse to a wordless prayer, The dreams of love and truth, The longings after somet…

And a proverb haunts my mind As a spell is cast, 'The mill cannot grind With the water that is past.'

But the waiting time, my brothers, Is the hardest time of all.