Severn - I - Lift

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

I Should Write For The Mere Yearning And Fondness I Have For The Beautiful, Even If My Night's Labors Should Be Burnt Every Morning And No Eye Shine Upon Them.

On A Lone Winter Evening, When The Frost Has Wrought A Silence.

That Queen Of Secrecy, The Violet.

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.