But If I Can't Be Sorry, Why,

Life Is A Quest And Love A Quarrel

This Have I Known Always: Love Is No More Than The Wide Blossom Which The Wind Assails, Than The Great Tide That Treads The Shifting Shore, Strewing Fresh Wreckage Gathered In The Gales; Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn, That The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

All My Life, Following Care Along The Dusty Road, Have I Looked Back On Loveliness And Sighed.

When You Are Corn And Roses And At Rest I Shall Endure, A Dense And Sanguine Ghost To Haunt The Scene Where I Was Happiest To Bend Above The Thing I Loved The Most

After All My Erstwhile Dear, My No Longer Cherished; Need We Say It Was Not Love, Just Because It Perished?