After The Feet Of Beauty Fly My

Under My Head Till Morning; But The Rain, Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh, Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply.

But You Were Something More Than Young And Sweet And Fair, - And The Long Year Remembers You.

Life In Itself / Is Nothing, / An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs. / It Is Not Enough That Yearly, Down This Hill, / April / Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare.

And Reaching Up My Hand To Try, I Screamed To Feel It Touch The Sky.