Father, I Beg Of Thee A Little

I Am Not Resigned To The Shutting Away Of Loving Hearts In The Hard Ground.

The First Rose On My Rose-tree Budded, Bloomed, And Shattered, During Sad Days When To Me Nothing Mattered. Grief Or Grief Has Drained Me Clean; Still It Seems A Pity No One Saw,—it Must Have Been Very Pretty.

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

My Candle Burns At Both Ends; It Will Not Last The Night; But Ah, My Foes, And Oh, My Friends - It Gives A Lovely Light!

Blessed Be Death, That Cuts In Marble What Would Have Sunk To Dust!