Yet Some Say Love By Being Thrall

Lovers, Forget Your Love And List To The Love Of These She A Window Flower And He A Winter Breeze.

Life Must Be Kept Up At A Great Rate In Order To Absorb Any Considerable Amount Of Learning.

How Are We To Write The Russian Novel In America As Long As Life Goes So Unterribly?

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.

I See For Nature No Defeat In One Tree's Overthrow Or For Myself In My Retreat For Yet Another Blow.