I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon,

The Words Of Mercury Are Harsh After The Songs Of Apollo.

Fire That's Closest Kept Burns Most Of All.

The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good Will.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.