... But The Rain Is Full Of

A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

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.

A Ghost In Marble Of A Girl You Knew Who Would Have Loved You In A Day Or Two.

Childhood Is Not From Birth To A Certain Age And At A Certain Age. The Child Is Grown, And Puts Away Childish Things. Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

Under My Head Till Morning; But The Rain, Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh, Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply.