Not Poppy, Nor Mandrake, Nor All The

For My Omniscience Paid I Toll In Infinite Remorse Of Soul. All Sin Was Of My Sinning, All Atoning Mine, And Mine The Gall Of All Regret. Mine Was The Weight Of Every Brooded Wrong, The Hate That Stood Behind Each Envious Thrust, Mine Every Greed, Mine Every Lust. And All The While For Every Grief, Each Suffering, I Craved Relief With Individual Desire, – Craved All In Vain! And Felt Fierce Fire About A Thousand People Crawl; Perished With Each, — Then Mourned For All!

This Book, When I Am Dead, Will Be A Little Faint Perfume Of Me. People Who Knew Me Well Will Say, She Really Used To Think That Way.

Please Don't Think Me Negligent Or Rude. I Am Both, In Effect, Of Course, But Please Don't Think Me Either.

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.

Life Is A Quest And Love A Quarrel