With Stammering Lips And Insufficient

I Saw, In Gradual Vision Through My Tears, The Sweet, Sad Years, The Melancholy Years, Those Of My Own Life, Who By Turns Had Flung A Shadow Across Me.

The Music Soars Within The Little Lark, And The Lark Soars.

For Poets (bear The Word) Half-poets Even, Are Still Whole Democrats.

If I Leave All For Thee, Wilt Thou Exchange And Be All To Me?

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.