Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare.

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year.

For The Body At Best Is A Bundle Of Aches, Longing For Rest; It Cries When It Wakes.

I Am All The Time Talking About You, And Bragging, To One Person Or Another. I Am Like The Ancient Mariner, Who Had A Tale In His Heart He Must Unfold To All. I Am Always Buttonholing Somebody And Saying, "someday You Must Meet My Mother."

If I Love You Wednesday, What Is That To You? I Do Not Love You Thursday - So Much Is True.

Life Is A Quest And Love A Quarrel