Every love’s the love before In a duller dress. That’s the measure of my lore– Here’s my bitterness: Would I knew a little more,

They hail you as their morning sta… Because you are the way you are. If you return the sentiment, They’ll try to make you different; And once they have you, safe and s…

I. The Minor Poet His little trills and chirpings we… No music like the nightingale’s wa… Within his throat; but he, too, la… Upon a thorn.

Oh, is it, then, Utopian To hope that I may meet a man Who’ll not relate, in accents suav… The tales of girls he used to have…

My answers are inadequate To those demanding day and date And ever set a tiny shock Through strangers asking what’s o’… Whose days are spent in whittling…

Men seldom make passes At girls who wear glasses.

She’s passing fair; but so demure… So quiet is her gown, so smooth he… That few there are who note her an… She’s passing fair. Yet when was ever beauty held more…

The bird that feeds from off my pa… Is sleek, affectionate, and calm, But double, to me, is worth the th… A-flickering in the elder-bush.

I never see that prettiest thing– A cherry bough gone white with Sp… But what I think, “How gay 'twoul… To hang me from a flowering tree.”

The same to me are sombre days and… Though joyous dawns the rosy morn,… Because my dearest love is gone aw… Within my heart is melancholy nigh… My heart beats low in loneliness,…

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,

Go I must along my ways Though my heart be ragged, Dripping bitter through the days, Festering, and jagged. Smile I must at every twinge,

Should Heaven send me any son, I hope he’s not like Tennyson. I’d rather have him play a fiddle Than rise and bow and speak an idy…

Leave me to my lonely pillow. Go, and take your silly posies Who has vowed to wear the willow Looks a fool, tricked out in roses… Who are you, my lad, to ease me?