The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --

Love is everything. And that's all we know about it.

How lucious lies the pea within the pod.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.

I died for beauty but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.