Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As

Or From Browning Some "pomegranate," Which If Cut Deep Down The Middle Shows A Heart Within Blood-tinctured, Of A Veined Humanity.

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless.

World's Use Is Cold, World's Love Is Vain, World's Cruelty Is Bitter Bane; But Is Not The Fruit Of Pain.

Behold Me! I Am Worthy Of Thy Loving, For I Love Thee!

The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise, I Barter For Curl Upon That Mart.