“But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.”

“SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.”

“For my omniscience paid I tollIn infinite remorse of soul.All sin was of my sinning, allAtoning mine, and mine the gallOf all regret. Mine was the weightOf every brooded wrong, the hateThat stood behind each envious thrust,Mine every greed, mine every lust.And all the while for every grief,Each suffering, I craved reliefWith individual desire, –Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fireAbout a thousand people crawl;Perished with each, — then mourned for all!”

“She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.”

“Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would noteIn me a beauty that was never mine,How first you knew me in a book I wrote,How first you loved me for a written line....”

“She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,And her mouth on a valentine.”

“Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it. (in a letter written while she was in college)”