Pour Away Despair And Rinse The Cup.

The First Rose On My Rose-tree Budded, Bloomed, And Shattered, During Sad Days When To Me Nothing Mattered. Grief Or Grief Has Drained Me Clean; Still It Seems A Pity No One Saw,—it Must Have Been Very Pretty.

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

Evil Alone Has Oil For Every Wheel.

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

Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs.