Without Music I Should Wish To Die.

Please Don't Think Me Negligent Or Rude. I Am Both, In Effect, Of Course, But Please Don't Think Me Either.

The Young Are So Old, They Are Born With Their Fingers Crossed.

Not For The Flag Of Any Land Because Myself Was Born There Will I Give Up My Life. But I Will Love That Land Where Man Is Free, And That Will I Defend.

So Up I Got In Anger, And Took A Book I Had, And Put A Ribbon On My Hair To Please A Passing Lad. And, "one Thing There's No Getting By -- I've Been A Wicked Girl," Said I; But If I Can't Be Sorry, Why, I Might As Well Be Glad!

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why, I Have Forgotten, And What Arms Have Lain Under My Head Till Morning, But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply, And In My Heart There Stirs A Quiet Pain For Unremembered Lads That Not Again Will Turn To Me At Midnight With A Cry. Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before: I Cannot Say What Loves Have Come And Gone, I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.