Mother, among the dustbins and the… I feel the measure of my humanity,… As of the presence of God, I am s… In the dustbins, in the manure, in… Is the presence of God, in a sure…

Away, melancholy, Away with it, let it go. Are not the trees green, The earth as green? Does not the wind blow,

The pleasures of friendship are ex… How pleasant to go to a friend on… I go to my friend, we walk on the… And the hours and moments like min…

Sisely Walked so nicely With footsteps so discreet To see her pass You’d never guess

Drugs made Pauline vague. She sat one day at the breakfast t… Fingering in a baffled way The fronds of the maidenhair plant… Was it the salt you were looking f…

Happiness is silent, or speaks equ… Grief is explicit and her song nev… Happiness is like England, and wi… Grief, like Guilt, rushes in and…

Why is the word pretty so underrat… In November the leaf is pretty wh… The stream grows deep in the woods… And in the pretty pool the pike st… He stalks his prey, and this is pr…

My heart goes out to my Creator i… Who gave me Death, as end and rem… All living creatures come to quiet… For him to eat up their activity And give them nothing, which is wh…

The shadow was so black, I thought it was a cat, But once in to it I knew it No more black

It was my bridal night I remember… An old man of seventy-three I lay with my young bride in my ar… A girl with t.b. It was wartime, and overhead

Coleridge received the Person fro… And ever after called him a curse, Then why did he hurry to let him i… He could have hid in the house. It was not right of Coleridge in…

The lions who ate the Christians… By indulging native appetites play… Not entirely negligible part In consolidating at the very start The position of the Early Christi…

Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood, They lisped in accents mild, But when I asked them to explain They grew a little wild. How do you know your Bog is dood

My heart was full of softening sho… I used to swing like this for hour… I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath.

Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you th… And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking