Death Devours All Lovely Things.

On And On Eternally Shall Your Altered Fluid Run, Bud And Bloom And Go To Seed; But Your Singing Days Are Done

Upon This Gifted Age, In Its Dark Hour Falls From The Sky A Meteoric Shower Of Facts; They Lie Unquestioned, Uncombined. Wisdom Enough To Leech Us Of Our Ill Is Daily Spun, But There Exists No Loom To Weave It Into Fabric.

The First Rose On My Rose-tree Budded, Bloomed, And Shattered, During Sad Days When To Me Nothing Mattered. Grief Or Grief Has Drained Me Clean; Still It Seems A Pity No One Saw,—it Must Have Been Very Pretty.

Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

This Book, When I Am Dead, Will Be A Little Faint Perfume Of Me. People Who Knew Me Well Will Say, She Really Used To Think That Way.