Time Can Make Soft That Iron Wood.

Cruel Of Heart, Lay Down My Song. Your Reading Eyes Have Done Me Wrong. Not For You Was The Pen Bitten, And The Mind Wrung, And The Song Written.

And Her Voice Is A String Of Colored Beads, Or Steps Leading Into The Sea.

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

One Things There's No Getting By, I've Been A Wicked Girl, Says I... But, If I Can't Be Sorry I Might As Well Be Glad !

I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear, So Make The Most Of This, Your Little Day, Your Little Month, Your Little Half A Year, Ere I Forget, Or Die, Or Move Away, And We Are Done Forever; By And By I Shall Forget You, As I Said, But Now, If You Entreat Me With Your Loveliest Lie I Will Protest You With My Favorite Vow. I Would Indeed That Love Were Longer-lived, And Vows Were Not So Brittle As They Are, But So It Is, And Nature Has Contrived To Struggle On Without A Break Thus Far,-- Whether Or Not We Find What We Are Seeking Is Idle, Biologically Speaking.