Music My Rampart, And My

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

My Heart Is Warm With The Friends I Make, And Better Friends I'll Not Be Knowing, Yet There Isn't A Train I Wouldn't Take, No Matter Where It's Going.

If Ever I Said In Grief Or Pride, I'd Tired Of Honest Things, I Lied.

A Ghost In Marble Of A Girl You Knew Who Would Have Loved You In A Day Or Two.

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.