Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.

I Shall Go Up And Down In My Gown. Gorgeously Arrayed, Boned And Stayed.