The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.

When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most

Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.

Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare.

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

Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year My soul is all but out of me-let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.