That Queen Of Secrecy, The Violet.

My Imagination Is A Monastery And I Am Its Monk.

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

The World Is Too Brutal For Me-i Am Glad There Is Such A Thing As The Grave-i Am Sure I Shall Never Have Any Rest Till I Get There.

Much Have I Travell'd In The Realms Of Gold.

O, Sorrow! Why Dost Borrow Heart's Lightness From The Merriment Of May?