Words Were Her Plague And Words Were

O Do Not Weep, She Says, For Ages Past I Was And I Endure

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

Ah Love Is Bitter And Sweet, But Which Is More Sweet The Bitterness Or The Sweetness, None Has Spoken It.