I Hope You Love Birds Too. It

Till It Has Loved, No Man Or Woman Can Become Itself.

My River Runs To Thee: Blue Sea, Wilt Welcome Me? My River Waits Reply. Oh Sea, Look Graciously! I ’ll Fetch Thee Brooks From Spotted Nooks,— Say, Sea, Take Me!

Death Is A Supple Suitor, That Wins At Last. It Is A Stealthy Wooing; Conducted First By Pallid Innuendos And Dim Approach, But Brave At Last With Bugles.

My Friends Are My Estate.

Longing Is Like A Seed That Wrestles In The Ground