If I Am Going To Be A

We Shall Not Always Plant While Others Reap

Death Cut The Strings That Gave Me Life, And Handed Me To Sorrow, The Only Kind Of Middle Wife My Folks Could Beg Or Borrow.

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

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.