I am the wind that wavers, </br> You are the certain land; </br> I am the shadow that passes </br> Over the sand. - Zoë Akins

Mine was a love so exquisite that I </br> Rather than watch it wither chose to die: </br> So dress my grave, O friend, with no poor flower </br> Which in your quiet garden blooms an hour!

To accuse is so easy that it is infamous to do so where proof is impossible!

And have we lost the right </br> To look on a blooming bough </br> Without remembering how </br> Once with high promising </br> We were a part of spring— </br> We who are now the dead </br> Leaves of other years strewn where flowers spread?