Death Devours All Lovely Things.

Beauty In All Things-no, We Cannot Hope For That; But Some Place Set Apart For It.

[on Going To Sunday School:] It Looks Like Rain, And I Hope It Will Rain Cats And Dogs And Hammers And Pitchforks And Silver Sugar Spoons And Hay Ricks And Paper-covered Novels And Picture Frames And Rag Carpets And Toothpicks And Skating Rinks And Birds Of Paradise And Roof Gardens And Burdocks And French Grammars Before Sunday School Time.

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

On And On Eternally Shall Your Altered Fluid Run, Bud And Bloom And Go To Seed; But Your Singing Days Are Done

The Longest Absence Is Less Perilous To Love Than The Terrible Trials Of Incessant Proximity.