If I Leave All For Thee, Wilt

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

We Overstate The Ills Of Life, And Take Imagination... Down Our Earth To Rake.

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.

Deep Violets, You Liken To The Kindest Eyes That Look On You, Without A Thought Disloyal.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.