I Will Be The Gladdest Thing Under

Beauty Is Whatever Gives Joy.

She Learned Her Hands In A Fairy-tale, And Her Mouth On A Valentine.

I Would Blossom If I Were A Rose.

There Are A Hundred Places Where I Fear To Go, --so With His Memory They Brim! And Entering With Relief Some Quiet Place Where Never Fell His Foot Or Shone His Face I Say, 'there Is No Memory Of Him Here!' And So Stand Stricken, So Remembering Him!

Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn What The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.