Beauty Is Whatever Gives Joy.

To A Young Poet Time Cannot Break The Bird's Wing From The Bird. Bird And Wing Together Go Down, One Feather. No Thing That Ever Flew, Not The Lark, Not You, Can Die As Others Do.

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.

Love Is Not All; It Is Not Meat Nor Drink.

It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days But That It Went In Little Ways.

And Reaching Up My Hand To Try, I Screamed To Feel It Touch The Sky.