This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales; Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.

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

Life is a quest and love a quarrel

I drank at every vine, the last was like the first. I came upon no wine so wonderful as thirst.

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's Lace.

... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight

After all my erstwhile dear, my no longer cherished; Need we say it was not love, just because it perished?