Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty

Death Devours All Lovely Things; Lesbia With Her Sparrow Shares The Darkness--presently Every Bed Is Narrow.

One Things There's No Getting By, I've Been A Wicked Girl, Says I... But, If I Can't Be Sorry I Might As Well Be Glad !

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why, I Have Forgotten, And What Arms Have Lain Under My Head Till Morning, But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply, And In My Heart There Stirs A Quiet Pain For Unremembered Lads That Not Again Will Turn To Me At Midnight With A Cry. Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before: I Cannot Say What Loves Have Come And Gone, I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.

Let Geese Gabble And Hiss, But Heroes Seek Release From Dusty Bondage Into Luminous Air.

I Will Be The Gladdest Thing Under The Sun! I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.