Time Can Make Soft That Iron Wood.

I Would Blossom If I Were A Rose.

Catch From The Board Of Beauty/ Such Careless Crumbs As Fall.

Death Devours All Lovely Things; Lesbia With Her Sparrow Shares The Darkness--presently Every Bed Is Narrow.

It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days But That It Went In Little Ways.

We Think-although Of Course, Now, We Very Seldom Clearly Think- That The Other Side Of War Is Peace.