Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

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.

Without Music I Should Wish To Die.

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year.

You See, I Am A Poet, And Not Quite Right In The Head, Darling. It’s Only That.

And Must I Then, Indeed, Pain, Live With You All Through My Life?-sharing My Fire, My Bed, Sharing-oh, Worst Of All Things!-the Same Head?- And, When I Feed Myself, Feeding You Too?