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

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.

Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line.

Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.