Men Are Not Angels, Neither Are They

At Last Awake From Life, That Insane Dream We Take For Waking Now.

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

What A Name! Was It Love Or Praise? Speech Half-asleep Or Song Half-awake? I Must Learn Spanish, One Of These Days, Only For That Slow Sweet Name's Sake.

Art Remains The One Way Possible Of Speaking Truth.

Never The Time And The Place And The Loved One All Together.