My Sun Sets To Rise Again.

What Joy Is Better Than The News Of Friends?

All June I Bound The Rose In Sheaves, Now, Rose By Rose, I Strip The Leaves.

The Only Fault's With Time; All Men Become Good Creatures: But So Slow!

Italy, My Italy! Queen Mary's Saying Serves For Me (when Fortune's Malice Lost Her Calais): "open My Heart, And You Will See Graved Inside Of It 'italy.'"

All Poetry Is Difficult To Read - The Sense Of It Anyhow.