I T'S very, very queer the way
They call this, Night, and that, the Day,
And then to parcel off the space,
And give each Week a little place.

And then reduce to months and years,
Our sorrows, blisses, hopes and fears;
'Tis very, very strange to me,
That such a foolish thing should be.

My calendar and clock shall go,
I want no dates of joy or woe,
The dawn and dusk together blend,
And stars shine out unto the end.

And this is all; life is so sweet,
So grand, so glorious and complete,
So wrought of love and ecstacy,—
No man shall name my things for me.