Youth Means Love, Vows Can't Change Nature,

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

Oh, To Be In England Now That April's There.

That Great Brow And The Spirit-small Hand Propping It.

I Give The Fight Up: Let There Be An End, A Privacy, An Obscure Nook For Me. I Want To Be Forgotten Even By God.

When The Liquor's Out, Why Clink The Cannikin?