Longing Alone Is Singer To The Lute.

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.

This Have I Known Always: Love Is No More Than The Wide Blossom Which The Wind Assails, Than The Great Tide That Treads The Shifting Shore, Strewing Fresh Wreckage Gathered In The Gales; Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn, That The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

She Learned Her Hands In A Fairy-tale, And Her Mouth On A Valentine.