Death Is Life's High Meed.

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Even The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest.

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

Dry Your Eyes O Dry Your Eyes, For I Was Taught In Paradise To Ease My Breast Of Melodies.

Young Playmates Of The Rose And Daffodil, Be Careful Ere Ye Enter In, To Fill Your Baskets High With Fennel Green, And Balm, And Golden Pines Savory Latter-mint, And Columbines.