Beauty Like Hers Is Genius.

From Perfect Grief There Need Not Bewisdom Or Even Memory;one Thing Then Learned Remains To Me -the Woodspurge Has A Cup Of Three.

I Do Not See Them Here; But After Death God Knows I Know The Faces I Shall See, Each One A Murdered Self, With Low Last Breath. 'i Am Thyself,what Hast Thou Done To Me?' 'and Iand Ithyself,' (lo! Each One Saith,) 'and Thou Thyself To All Eternity!

Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

Tell Me Now In What Hidden Way Islady Flora The Lovely Roman?where's Hipparchia, And Where Is Thais,neither Of Them The Fairer Woman?where Is Echo, Beheld Of No Man,only Heard On River And Mere-she Whose Beauty Was More Than Human?-but Where Are The Snows Of Yester-year?

Sometimes Thou Seem'st Not As Thyself Alone, But As The Meaning Of All Things That Are.