From The Sprinkled Isles, Lily On Lily,

Any Nose May Ravage With Impunity A Rose.

Each Life Unfulfilled, You See; It Hangs Still, Patchy And Scrappy: We Have Not Sighed Deep, Laughed Free, Starved, Feasted, Despaired,—been Happy.

No Work Begun Shall Ever Pause For Death.

Might She Have Loved Me? Just As Well She Might Have Hated, Who Can Tell!

When The Liquor's Out, Why Clink The Cannikin?