I Drank At Every Vine, The Last

She Learned Her Hands In A Fairy-tale, And Her Mouth On A Valentine.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Fortunate They Who, Though Once Only And Then But Far Away, Have Heard Her Massive Sandal Set On Stone.

The Heart Grows Weary After A Little Of What It Loved For A Little While.

The World Stands Out On Either Side, No Wider Than The Heart Is Wide.

And Must I Then, Indeed, Pain, Live With You All Through My Life?-sharing My Fire, My Bed, Sharing-oh, Worst Of All Things!-the Same Head?- And, When I Feed Myself, Feeding You Too?