Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People

In A Wood They Call The Rouge Bouquet, There Is A New-made Grave Today, Built By Never A Spade Nor Pick, Yet Covered With Earth Ten Meteres Thick. There Lie Many Fighting Men. Dead In Their Youthful Prime.

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree.

The Only Reason A Road Is Good As Every Wanderer Knows / Is Just Because Of The Homes, The Homes, The Homes To Which One Goes

There Is No Place In Which To Hide When Age Comes Seeking For His Bride.