On The Neck Of The Young Man

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

I Am Tired, Beloved, Of Chafing My Heart Against The Want Of You; Of Squeezing It Into Little Inkdrops, And Posting It.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.