A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

Summer Set Lip To Earth's Bosom Bare, And Left The Flushed Print In A Poppy There. I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why, I Have Forgotten, And What Arms Have Lain Under My Head Till Morning, But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply, And In My Heart There Stirs A Quiet Pain For Unremembered Lads That Not Again Will Turn To Me At Midnight With A Cry. Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before: I Cannot Say What Loves Have Come And Gone, I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.

Soar, Eat Ether, See What Has Never Been Seen; Depart, Be Lost, But Climb.

Cruel Of Heart, Lay Down My Song. Your Reading Eyes Have Done Me Wrong. Not For You Was The Pen Bitten, And The Mind Wrung, And The Song Written.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Let All Who Prate Of Beauty Hold Their Peace, And Lay Them Prone Upon The Earth And Cease To Ponder On Themselves, The While They Stare At Nothing, Intricately Drawn Nowhere.