I Would Blossom If I Were A

Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn What The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

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

For The Body At Best Is A Bundle Of Aches, Longing For Rest; It Cries When It Wakes.

Summer Set Lip To Earth's Bosom Bare, And Left The Flushed Print In A Poppy There. I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

I Am Not Afraid Of Lawyers As I Used To Be. They Are Lambs In Wolves' Clothing.