Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon

* * *

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.

1. Now That I Have Won
2. The Dead to the Living
3. Whitechapel High Road
4. Inheritance
5. Asoka

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