You Ask Of My Companions. Hills, Sir,

I Had A Terror-since September -i Could Tell To None-and So I Sing, As The Boy Does By The Burying Ground-because I Am Afraid.

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

Judge Tenderly Of Me.

A Great Hope Fell You Heard No Noise The Ruin Was Within.

The Heart Wants What It Wants - Or Else It Does Not Care