Ah, Love, - You Are

It Was Roses, Roses, All The Way, With Myrtle Mixed In My Path Like Mad.

Each Life Unfulfilled, You See; It Hangs Still, Patchy And Scrappy: We Have Not Sighed Deep, Laughed Free, Starved, Feasted, Despaired,—been Happy.

Therefore I Summon Age / To Grant Youth's Heritage.

Tis Looking Downward Makes One Dizzy.

A Pretty Woman's Worth Some Pains To See, Nor Is She Spoiled, I Take It, If A Crown Completes The Forehead Pale And Tresses Pure.