God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can

Deep Violets, You Liken To The Kindest Eyes That Look On You, Without A Thought Disloyal.

Love That Endures, From Life That Disappears!

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.

The Beautiful Seems Right By Force Of Beauty And The Feeble Wrong Because Of Weakness.

Alas, I Have Grieved So I Am Hard To Love. Yet Love Me--wilt Thou? Open Thine Heart Wide, And Fold Within, The Wet Wings Of Thy Dove.