Martyred Many Times Must Be Who Would

Death Devours All Lovely Things; Lesbia With Her Sparrow Shares The Darkness--presently Every Bed Is Narrow.

Love Is Not All: It Is Not Meat Nor Drink Nor Slumber Nor A Roof Against The Rain; Nor Yet A Floating Spar To Men That Sink And Rise And Sink And Rise And Sink Again; Love Can Not Fill The Thickened Lung With Breath, Nor Clean The Blood, Nor Set The Fractured Bone; Yet Many A Man Is Making Friends With Death Even As I Speak, For Lack Of Love Alone.

Night Falls Fast. Today Is In The Past. Blown From The Dark Hill Hither To My Door Three Flakes, Then Four Arrive, Then Many More.

[on Going To Sunday School:] It Looks Like Rain, And I Hope It Will Rain Cats And Dogs And Hammers And Pitchforks And Silver Sugar Spoons And Hay Ricks And Paper-covered Novels And Picture Frames And Rag Carpets And Toothpicks And Skating Rinks And Birds Of Paradise And Roof Gardens And Burdocks And French Grammars Before Sunday School Time.

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.