She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me.

The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.

Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare.

Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.

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