Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So,

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

Oh That The Desert Were My Dwelling-place, With One Fair Spirit For My Minister

I Have Imbibed Such A Love For Money That I Keep Some Sequins In A Drawer To Count, And Cry Over Them Once A Week.

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.