I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!

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

I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

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

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

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.