I Am Waylaid By Beauty.

But You Were Something More Than Young And Sweet And Fair, - And The Long Year Remembers You.

We Are All Ruled In What We Do By Impulses; And These Impulses Are So Organized That Our Actions In General Serve For Our Self Preservation And That Of The Race.

Sorrow Like A Ceaseless Rain Beats Upon My Heart. People Twist And Scream In Pain-- Dawn Will Find Them Still Again; This Has Neither Wax Nor Wane, Neither Stop Nor Start.

Need We Say It Was Not Love, Now That Love Is Perished?

I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me A Little While, That In Me Sings No More.