They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now

Music my rampart, and my only one.

Life must go on, Though good men die.

No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.

Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

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.