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!

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

Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.

You are loved. If so, what else matters?

All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.

She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.