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

Death devours all lovely things.

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

Father, I beg of Thee a little task To dignify my days, 'tis all I ask.

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.

When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more.

Time can make soft that iron wood.