Music my rampart, and my only one.

So up I got in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, "One thing there's no getting by -- I've been a wicked girl," said I; But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.

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

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart. I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And I lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain.

That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

You are loved. If so, what else matters?