I, Being Born A Woman And Distressed

To A Young Poet Time Cannot Break The Bird's Wing From The Bird. Bird And Wing Together Go Down, One Feather. No Thing That Ever Flew, Not The Lark, Not You, Can Die As Others Do.

To Be Grown Up Is To Sit At The Table With People Who Have Died, Who Neither Listen Nor Speak.

The Heart Grows Weary After A Little Of What It Loved For A Little While.

Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn What The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

Dust In An Urn Long Since, Dispersed And Dead Is Great Apollo; And The Happier He