That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.

Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line.

Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.

Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he'll take from off the other end!

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

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!