O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet,

Eyes Of Gentianellas Azure, Staring, Winking At The Skies.

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.

Very Whitely Still The Lilies Of Our Lives May Reassure Their Blossoms From Their Roots, Accessible Alone To Heavenly Dews That Drop Not Fewer; Growing Straight Out Of Man's Reach, On The Hill. God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can Make Us Poor.

The Exchange Of Sympathy For Gratitude Is The Most Princely Thing!

A Woman's Pity Sometimes Makes Her Mad.