Beloved, Let Us Live So Well Our

It Is Difficult To Get Rid Of People When You Once Have Given Them Too Much Pleasure.

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

A Great Acacia, With Its Slender Trunk And Overpoise Of Multitudinous Leaves. (in Which A Hundred Fields Might Spill Their Dew And Intense Verdure, Yet Find Room Enough) Stood Reconciling All The Place With Green.

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love.