Come The Three Corners Of The World

What Cannot Be Saved When Fate Takes, Patience Her Injury A Mockery Makes

I Hate The Murderer, Love Him Murdered.

They Love Least That Let Men Know Their Loves.

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.

This Feather Stirs; She Lives! If It Be So, It Is A Chance Which Does Redeem All Sorrows That Ever I Have Felt.