Comes, dear, into my heart: I am afraid
That you being one with shadow-bars and roses,
Birds and wild scents of June, with these will fly
And I be left alone when Summer closes
Her pageantry!
SONNET
That Death shall take and slay me matters not
In truth: for better men are buried under,
And—tut, “what can’t be cured must be endured”!
But I am wild with hate, pray devil’s thunder