Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter's rages: Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers, come to dust. And tears came to his eyes, and he was filled with love and appreciation for these good kinsfolk of his who found such wealth in their little happiness and were so easily consoled in their little sorrows. And in the music it seemed that he and his mother could meet, had found a language which both could understand, a song to unite passionate acceptance and passionate denial in the peace of the soul. George said he never did think much of classical music, and asked Elsie to sing his favorite song: "Poppyland." That done, they joined hands and sang "For Auld Lang Syne." His mother came to see René in his bed. She said: "You won't come again." "How do you know that?" "I feel it. You've been very good and you have made me very happy." "Then I'll come again." "I don't want you to come again. You'll never be the same. George is always the same." René remembered how his father had said she had done her best to keep them from ever being men. "All right, mother. I wouldn't like it to be a pain for you to see me." She smiled. "It always is pain, René, dear, because I had to let you go." He drew her down to him and kissed her. She said: "An old woman like me." He whispered: "There'll always be some music that I can never hear without thinking of you." "Yes," she said. "You were always the one to listen. And your father liked it too--some things." "I'll think of that too." "Yes. Think kindly of your father. We both did try."