I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.

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.

Never Say No When The World Says Aye.

Men Get Opinions As Boys Learn To Spell By Reiteration Chiefly.

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless; That Only Men Incredulous Of Despair, Half-taught In Anguish, Through The Midnight Air Beat Upward To God's Throne In Loud Access Of Shrieking And Reproach