A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

To What Purpose, April, Do You Return Again? Beauty Is Not Enough.

The First Rose On My Rose-tree Budded, Bloomed, And Shattered, During Sad Days When To Me Nothing Mattered. Grief Or Grief Has Drained Me Clean; Still It Seems A Pity No One Saw,—it Must Have Been Very Pretty.

Please Give Me Some Good Advice In Your Next Letter. I Promise Not To Follow It.

I Am Not Resigned To The Shutting Away Of Loving Hearts In The Hard Ground.

Ah, I Could Lay Me Down In This Long Grass And Close My Eyes, And Let The Quiet Wind Blow Over Me