What Joy Is Better Than The News

What Of Soul Was Left, I Wonder, When The Kissing Had To Stop?

How Sad And Bad And Mad It Was - But Then, How It Was Sweet

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

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

God's Justice, Tardy Though It Prove Perchance, Rests Never On The Track Until It Reach Delinquency.