Music My Rampart, And My Only One.

Ah, I Could Lay Me Down In This Long Grass And Close My Eyes, And Let The Quiet Wind Blow Over Me

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why, I Have Forgotten, And What Arms Have Lain Under My Head Till Morning, But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply, And In My Heart There Stirs A Quiet Pain For Unremembered Lads That Not Again Will Turn To Me At Midnight With A Cry. Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before: I Cannot Say What Loves Have Come And Gone, I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.

Dust In An Urn Long Since, Dispersed And Dead Is Great Apollo; And The Happier He

It's Little I Know What's In My Heart,what's In My Mind It's Little I Know,but There's That In Me Must Up And Start,and It's Little I Care Where My Feet Go.