I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

There are a hundred places where I fear To go, --so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.

You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.

Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me, I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly That I might eat again, and met thy sneers With deprecations, and thy blows with tears.

April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.