Of What I Call God, And Fools

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

How Good Is Life, The Mere Living!

All June I Bound The Rose In Sheaves, Now, Rose By Rose, I Strip The Leaves.

"with This Same Key Shakespeare Unlocked His Heart" Once More! Did Shakespeare? If So, The Less Shakespeare He!

A Minute Of Success Pays For Years Of Failure.