Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.
Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
If something is not beautiful, it is probably not true.
Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.