Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.
Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.
The hearts that never lean must fall.
Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.