To Die Before One Fears To Die

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Affection Is Like Bread, Unnoticed Till We Starve, And Then We Dream Of It, And Sing Of It, And Paint It, When Every Urchin In The Street Has More Than He Can Eat.

Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane

So Proud She Was To Die It Made Us All Ashamed That What We Cherished, So Unknown To Her Desire Seemed. So Satisfied To Go Where None Of Us Should Be, Immediately, That Anguish Stooped Almost To Jealousy.

When I State Myself, As The Representative Of The Verse, It Does Not Mean Me, But A Supposed Person.