I Do Not Like The Man Who

Write Me Of Hope And Love, And Hearts That Endured.

All Things Do Go A-courting, In Earth, Or Sea, Or Air, God Hath Made Nothing Single But Thee In His World So Fair.

Apparently With No Surprise To Any Happy Flower The Frost Beheads It At Its Play -- In Accidental Power -- The Blonde Assassin Passes On -- The Sun Proceeds Unmoved To Measure Off Another Day For An Approving God.

The Truth Dazzles Gradually, Or Else The World Would Be Blind.

A Courteous, Yet Harrowing Grace, As Guest, That Would Be Gone