Of Writing Many Books There

With Stammering Lips And Insufficient Sound I Strive And Struggle To Deliver Right The Music Of My Nature.

Will That Light Come Again, As Now These Tears Come...falling Hot And Real!

O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet, Thou Art Strange!

My Love For Him Was So Exquisitely Pure That If We All Were Capable Of Giving And Receiving Such A Beautiful Gift The World Would Be A Far More Brilliant Place; I Think We'd All Be Poets.

Unless You Can Muse In A Crowd All Day On The Absent Face That Fixed You; Unless You Can Love, As The Angels May, With The Breadth Of Heaven Betwixt You; Unless You Can Dream That His Faith Is Fast, Through Behoving And Unbehoving; Unless You Can Die When The Dream Is Past — Oh, Never Call It Loving!