Pagination
My river runs to thee
Myself computed were they pearls
News is he of all the others
No passenger was known to flee
No wilderness can be
Nobody knows this little rose
Not at home to callers
Not knowing when the dawn will come
Notes on items sold by Harry Stone from Sweetser collection
On the world you colored
One thing of thee I covet
Paradise is of the option
Paradise is that old mansion
Partake as doth the bee
Pausing against our palsied faces
Perhaps you think me stooping
Pink - small - and punctual
Please accept a sunset
Poem describing a perfect school
Pompeii - All its occupations crystallized
Recollect the face of me
Shall I take thee, the poet said
She sped as petals of a rose
Sir Christopher Wren is here
So glad we are a stranger'd deem
So pleased she was to die
Soft as the massacre of suns
South winds jostle them
Still own thee - still thou art
Summer laid her simple hat
Sunset that screens, reveals
Sweet skepticism of the heart