If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.

This I say, and this I know: Love has seen the last of me. Love’s a trodden lane to woe, Love’s a path to misery. This I know, and knew before,

Then let them point my every tear, And let them mock and moan; Another week, another year, And I’ll be with my own Who slumber now by night and day

Here in my heart I am Helen; I’m Aspasia and Hero, at least. I’m Judith, and Jael, and Madame… I’m Salome, moon of the East. Here in my soul I am Sappho;

Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine; Refresh your recollection, And sit a moment, to define His means of self-protection. How truly fortified is he!

If it shine or if it rain, Little will I care or know. Days, like drops upon a pane, Slip, and join, and go. At my door’s another lad;

Star, that gives a gracious dole, What am I to choose? Oh, will it be a shriven soul, Or little buckled shoes? Shall I wish a wedding-ring,

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt… And drink your rushing words with… And paint my mouth for you a fragr… And trace your brows with tutored… When you rehearse your list of lov…

They say He was a serious child, And quiet in His ways; They say the gentlest lady smiled To hear the neighbors’ praise. The coffers of her heart would clo…

What time the gifted lady took Away from paper, pen, and book, She spent in amorous dalliance (They do those things so well in…

The things she knew, let her forge… The voices in the sky, the fear, t… The gaping shepherds, and the quee… Piling their clumsy gifts of forei… Let her have laughter with her lit…

Little things that no one needs— Little things to joke about— Little landscapes, done in beads. Little morals, woven out, Little wreaths of gilded grass,

By the time you swear you’re his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying— Lady, make a note of this: