... But The Rain Is

She Is Happy Where She Lies With The Dust Upon Her Eyes.

My Candle Burns At Both Ends; It Will Not Last The Night; But Ah, My Foes, And Oh, My Friends - It Gives A Lovely Light!

After All My Erstwhile Dear, My No Longer Cherished; Need We Say It Was Not Love, Just Because It Perished?

A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Let All Who Prate Of Beauty Hold Their Peace, And Lay Them Prone Upon The Earth And Cease To Ponder On Themselves, The While They Stare At Nothing, Intricately Drawn Nowhere In Shapes Of Shifting Lineage; Let Geese Gabble And Hiss, But Heroes Seek Release From Dusty Bondage Into Luminous Air. O Blinding Hour, O Holy, Terrible Day, When First The Shaft Into His Vision Shone Of Light Anatomized! 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.