But The Rose Leaves Herself Upon The

Pleasure Is Oft A Visitant; But Pain Clings Cruelly To Us.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness.

That Queen Of Secrecy, The Violet.

I Came To Feel How Far Above All Fancy, Pride, And Fickle Maidenhood, All Earthly Pleasure, All Imagined Good, Was The Warm Tremble Of A Devout Kiss.