May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.