For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.

His ears were often the first thing to catch my tears.

She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

Since when was genius found respectable?