Heap Not On This Mound

The First Rose On My Rose-tree Budded, Bloomed, And Shattered, During Sad Days When To Me Nothing Mattered. Grief Or Grief Has Drained Me Clean; Still It Seems A Pity No One Saw,—it Must Have Been Very Pretty.

I Would Blossom If I Were A Rose.

You Are Loved. If So, What Else Matters?

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

I Am Not A Tentative Person. Whatever I Do, I Give Up My Whole Self To It.