Guess I'll Weep Awhile. Guess I Won't,

Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs.

I Dread No More The First White In My Hair, Or Even Age Itself, The Easy Shoe, The Cane, The Wrinkled Hands, The Special Chair: Time, Doing This To Me, May Alter Too My Anguish, Into Something I Can Bear

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

There Are A Hundred Places Where I Fear To Go, --so With His Memory They Brim! And Entering With Relief Some Quiet Place Where Never Fell His Foot Or Shone His Face I Say, 'there Is No Memory Of Him Here!' And So Stand Stricken, So Remembering Him!

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