Love Is Like A Child,

One Sees More Devils Than Vast Hell Can Hold

I Am Not Mad; I Would To Heaven I Were! For Then, 'tis Like I Should Forget Myself; O, If I Could, What Grief Should I Forget!

What's His Offense? Groping For Trout In A Peculiar River.

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.

Not Proud You Have, But Thankful That You Have. Proud Can I Never Be Of What I Hate, But Thankful Even For Hate That Is Meant Love.