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.

The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

Music my rampart, and my only one.

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

I would blossom if I were a rose.

Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare.