The TriflerDeath's the lover that I'd be taking; Wild and fickle and fierce is he. Small's his care if my heart be breaking-Gay young Death would have none of me. Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!No one other my mouth had kissed.I had dressed me in silk to meet him-False young Death would not hold the tryst. Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy, Smooth and cold is the bridal bed; I must wait till he whistles for me-Proud young Death would not turn his head.I must wait till my breast is wilted.I must wait till my back is bowed,I must rock in the corner, jilted-Death went galloping down the road. Gone's my heart with a trifling rover. Fine he was in the game he played-Kissed, and promised, and threw me over, And rode away with a prettier maid.
MenThey hail you as their morning starBecause you are the way you are. If you return the sentiment, They'll try to make you different; And once they have you, safe and sound, They want to change you all around. Your moods and ways they put a curse on; They'd make of you another person. They cannot let you go your gait; They influence and educate. They'd alter all that they admired. They make me sick, they make me tired.
Little WordsWhen you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf, Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds; And I can only stare, and shape my griefIn little words.I cannot conjure loveliness, to drownThe bitter woe that racks my cords apart. The weary pen that sets my sorrow downFeeds at my heart. There is no mercy in the shifting year, No beauty wraps me tenderly about.I turn to little words- so you, my dear, Can spell them out.