Of many souls that have cried and died.
I think you clutched one of your soul-bones with irreverent hands,
And struck your cringing violin.
Gifts
A dwindling gift are you, laughter.
Old men have I seen, counterfeiting you on street-corners.
Never shall I join them,
For not in scorn do I laugh, but in praise.
Only with my smiles am I lavish;
A different smile for each thought have I.