The Rose Is A Rose,

I Would Not Come In. I Meant Not Even If Asked, And I Hadn't Been.

Tree At My Window, Window Tree, My Sash Is Lowered When Night Comes On; But Let There Never Be Curtain Drawn Between You And Me.

Summary Riposte To The Dreary Wail There's No Knowing What Love Is All About. Poets Know A Lot.

So Was I Once Myself A Swinger Of Birches. And So I Dream Of Going Back To Be.

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.