So bashful when I spied her!So pretty ― so ashamed!So hidden in her leafletsLest anybody find ―So breathless till I passed her ―So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her struggling, blushing,Her simple haunts beyond!For whom I robbed the Dingle ―For whom betrayed the Dell ―Many, will doubtless ask me,But I shall never tell!

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

Fame is a bee.It has a song -It has a sting -Ah, too, it has a wing.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

To be alive──is Power.

The Poets light but Lamps-Themselves-go out-.