Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past. Blown from the dark hill hither to my door Three flakes, then four Arrive, then many more.

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.

I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, "Someday you must meet my mother."

The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief or grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty.

The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.

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