When It Is Moving On Luxurious Wings,

I Scarcely Remember Counting Upon Happiness—i Look Not For It If It Be Not In The Present Hour—nothing Startles Me Beyond The Moment. The Setting Sun Will Always Set Me To Rights, Or If A Sparrow Come Before My Window I Take Part In Its Existence And Pick About The Gravel.

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.