Love's Pestilence, And Her Slow Dogs Of

The Intense Atom Glows A Moment, Then Is Quenched In A Most Cold Repose.

The Desire Of The Moth For The Star, Of The Night For The Morrow, The Devotion To Something Afar From The Sphere Of Our Sorrow.

I Have Drunken Deep Of Joy.

All Love Is Sweet Given Or Returned. Common As Light Is Love, And Its Familiar Voice Wearies Not Ever.

O Heart, And Mind, And Thoughts! What Thing Do You Hope To Inherit In The Grave Below?