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!

What should I be but just what I am?

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !

Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.

... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight

I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.