Only by love is life made real.
Old love, old love, / How can I be true? / Shall I be faithless to myself / Or to you?
It is strange how often a heart must be broken before the years can make it wise.
When I am dead, and over me bright April Shakes out her rain drenched hair, Tho you should lean above me broken hearted, I shall not care. For I shall have peace. As leafey trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough. And I shall be more silent and cold hearted Than you are now
I found more joy in sorrow than you could find in joy.
One by one, like leaves from a tree, / All my faiths have forsaken me.