We Outgrow Love Like Other Things And

Sweet Skepticism Of The Heart That Knows And Does Not Know And Tosses Like A Fleet Of Balm Affronted By The Snow.

How Strange That Nature Does Not Knock, And Yet Does Not Intrude!

They Address An Eclipse Every Morning, Whom They Call Their "father."

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate, Whose Table Once A Guest, But Not The Second Time, Is Set. Whose Crumbs The Crows Inspect, And With Ironic Caw Flap Past It To The Farmer's Corn; Men Eat Of It And Die.

Beauty Is Not The Cause Of Something, It Is What It Is.