I Know, But I Do Not Approve.

And Her Voice Is A String Of Colored Beads, Or Steps Leading Into The Sea.

This Book, When I Am Dead, Will Be A Little Faint Perfume Of Me. People Who Knew Me Well Will Say, She Really Used To Think That Way.

The First Rose On My Rose-tree Budded, Bloomed, And Shattered, During Sad Days When To Me Nothing Mattered. Grief Or Grief Has Drained Me Clean; Still It Seems A Pity No One Saw,—it Must Have Been Very Pretty.

Although We Sometimes Did Without A Few Of Life's Necessities, We Rarely Lacked For Its Luxuries.

Night Falls Fast. Today Is In The Past.