I Am Not Resigned To The Shutting

After All My Erstwhile Dear, My No Longer Cherished; Need We Say It Was Not Love, Just Because It Perished?

I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.

Night Falls Fast. Today Is In The Past.

Time Can Make Soft That Iron Wood.

This Book, When I Am Dead, Will Be A Little Faint Perfume Of Me. People Who Knew Me Well Will Say, She Really Used To Think That Way.