That Queen Of Secrecy, The Violet.

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

I Would Jump Down Etna For Any Public Good - But I Hate A Mawkish Popularity.

Ask Yourself My Love Whether You Are Not Very Cruel To Have So Entrammelled Me, So Destroyed My Freedom. Will You Confess This In The Letter You Must Write Immediately, And Do All You Can To Console Me In It — Make It Rich As A Draught Of Poppies To Intoxicate Me —write The Softest Words And Kiss Them That I May At Least Touch My Lips Where Yours Have Been. For Myself I Know Not How To Express My Devotion To So Fair A Form: I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright, A Fairer Word Than Fair.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

When I Have Fears That I May Ceace To Be, Before My Pen Has Gleaned My Teaming Brain".