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

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide! 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!

Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.

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

One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !

My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!