Whatever's Lost, It First Was

And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp Of Things Divine.

I Have Done Most Of My Talking By Post Of Late Years--as People Shut Up In Dungeons Take Up With Scrawling Mottoes On The Walls.

Many A Crown Covers Bald Foreheads.

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.

Love That Endures, From Life That Disappears!