I Cut My Teeth As The Black

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible Thing; They Lie Who Say That Death Is Worse.

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

The Night Whose Sable Breast Relieves The Stark, White Stars, Is No Less Lovely Being Dark

Whatever Lives Is Granted Breath But By The Grace And Sufferance Of Death.