Longing Alone Is Singer To The Lute.

A Ghost In Marble Of A Girl You Knew Who Would Have Loved You In A Day Or Two.

Love Is Not All; It Is Not Meat Nor Drink.

On And On Eternally Shall Your Altered Fluid Run, Bud And Bloom And Go To Seed; But Your Singing Days Are Done

I Hate People But I Love Gatherings.

We Were So Wholly One I Had Not Thought That We Could Die Apart. I Had Not Thought That I Could Move,—and You Be Stiff And Still! That I Could Speak,—and You Perforce Be Dumb! I Think Our Heart-strings Were, Like Warp And Woof In Some Firm Fabric, Woven In And Out; Your Golden Filaments In Fair Design Across My Duller Fibre.