The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And

When We First Met And Loved, I Did Not Build Upon The Event With Marble. . . .

Our Euripides The Human, With His Droppings Of Warm Tears, And His Touchings Of Things Common Till They Rose To Meet The Spheres.

A Man May Love A Woman Perfectly, And Yet By No Means Ignorantly Maintain A Thousand Women Have Not Larger Eyes. Enough That She Alone Has Looked At Him With Eyes That, Large Or Small, Have Won His Soul.

I Begin To Think That None Are So Bold As The Timid, When They Are Fairly Roused.

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.