Music My Rampart, And My Only One.

I Would Blossom If I Were A Rose.

A Ghost In Marble Of A Girl You Knew Who Would Have Loved You In A Day Or Two.

On And On Eternally Shall Your Altered Fluid Run, Bud And Bloom And Go To Seed; But Your Singing Days Are Done

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before