Bee To The Blossom, Moth To The

I Shall Be Found With 'indians' Engraved On My Brain When I Am Dead. A Fire Has Been Kindled Within Me, Which Will Never Go Out.

For April Sobs While These Are So Glad April Weeps While These Are So Gay,- Weeps Like A Tired Child Who Had, Playing With Flowers, Lost Its Way.

Now And Then One Sees A Face Which Has Kept Its Smile Pure And Undefiled. Such A Smile Transfigures; Such A Smile, If The Artful But Know It, Is The Greatest Weapon A Face Can Have.

Nothing Can Be So Bad As To Be Displeased With One's Self.

O Sweet, Delusive Noon, Which The Morning Climbs To Find, O Moment Sped Too Soon, And Morning Left Behind.