Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I

Gentle And Low, An Excellent Thing In Woman.

I Thought My Heart Had Been Wounded With The Claws Of A Lion.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

A Hundred Thousand Welcomes: I Could Weep, And I Could Laugh; I Am Light And Heavy: Welcome.

For They Are Yet Ear-kissing Arguments.