“What should I bebut just what I am?”

“And what are you that, missing you,I should be kept awakeAs many nights as there are daysWith weeping for your sake?And what are you that, missing you,As many days as crawlI should be listening to the windAnd looking at the wall?I know a man that’s a braver manAnd twenty men as kind,And what are you, that you should beThe one man in my mind?Yet women’s ways are witless ways,As any sage will tell,—And what am I, that I should loveSo wisely and so well?”

“Dirge Without MusicI am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. CrownedWith lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curledIs the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.Down, down, down into the darkness of the graveGently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”

“I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”

“I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.”

“Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. ”

“Was it for this I uttered prayers,And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,That now, domestic as a plate,I should retire at half-past eight?”