If Thou Must Love Me, Let It

With What Cracked Pitchers Go We To Deep Wells In This World!

And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp Of Things Divine.

Girls Blush, Sometimes, Because They Are Alive, Half Wishing They Were Dead To Save The Shame. The Sudden Blush Devours Them, Neck And Brow; They Have Drawn Too Near The Fire Of Life, Like Gnats, And Flare Up Bodily, Wings And All. What Then? Who's Sorry For A Gnat Or Girl?

For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours From My Life.

The Exchange Of Sympathy For Gratitude Is The Most Princely Thing!