In The Last Year I Have Learned, How Few Men Are Worth My Trust; I Have Seen The Friend I Loved Struck By Death Into The Dust, And Fears I Never Knew Before, Have Knocked And Knocked Upon My Door, "I Shall Hope Little And Ask For Less," I Said, "There Is No Happiness." I Have Grown Wise At Last, But How, Can I Hide The Gleam On The Willow-Bough, Or Keep The Fragrance Out Of The Rain Now That April Is Here Again? When Maples Stand In A Haze Of Fire, What Can I Say To The Old Desire, What Shall I Do With The Joy In Me, That Is Born Out Of Agony?