Although We Sometimes Did Without A Few

When We Are Old And These Rejoicing Veins Are Frosty Channels To A Muted Stream, And Out Of All Our Burning There Remains No Feeblest Spark To Fire Us, Even In Dream, This Be Our Solace: That It Was Not Said When We Were Young And Warm And In Our Prime, Upon Our Couch We Lay As Lie The Dead, Sleeping Away The Unreturning Time.

I, Being Born A Woman And Distressed By All The Needs And Notions Of My Kind.

I Drank At Every Vine, The Last Was Like The First. I Came Upon No Wine So Wonderful As Thirst.

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

Longing Alone Is Singer To The Lute.