I Am Too Rich Already, For My

Why Break The Heart That Never Beat From Love?

Through Her, In Microcosm, The Wide Earth Sobbed. The Starglobe Sank In Her; The Colours Faded. The Death-dew Rose And The Wild Birds In Her Breast Climbed To Her Throat And Gathered Songless, Hovering, All Tumult, Wing To Wing, So Ardent For Those Climes Where All Things End.

Lingering Is So Very Lonely When One Lingers All Alone.

And Now, My Poor Old Woman, Why Are You Crying So Bitterly? It Is Autumn. The Leaves Are Falling From The Trees Like Burning Tears- The Wind Howls. Why Must You Mimic Them?

For What Use Are Books To Anyone Whose Days Are Like A Rook's Nest With Every Twig A Duty.