I Had A Little Sorrow, Born Of

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

Tiresome Heart, Forever Living And Dying, House Without Air, I Leave You And Lock Your Door. Wild Swans, Come Over The Town, Come Over The Town Again, Trailing Your Legs And Crying!

And What Are You That, Missing You, I Should Be Kept Awake As Many Nights As There Are Days With Weeping For Your Sake? And What Are You That, Missing You, As Many Days As Crawl I Should Be Listening To The Wind And Looking At The Wall? I Know A Man That’s A Braver Man And Twenty Men As Kind, And What Are You, That You Should Be The One Man In My Mind? Yet Women’s Ways Are Witless Ways, As Any Sage Will Tell,— And What Am I, That I Should Love So Wisely And So Well?

I Hate People But I Love Gatherings.

That Is My Being, The Madness Of An Unaccustomed Mood.