The Loss Of Love Is

The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible Thing; They Lie Who Say That Death Is Worse.

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.

We Shall Not Always Plant While Others Reap

Dame Poverty Gave Me My Name, And Pain Godfathered Me.