There are a hundred places where I fear To go, --so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.

Man has never been the same since God died.

Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.

... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight