I lift my heart as spring lifts up A yellow daisy to the rain; My heart will be a lovely cup Altho' it holds but pain. For I shall learn from flower … - Sara Teasdale

I have grown weary of the winds of heaven. I will not be a reed to hold the sound Of whatsoever breath the gods may blow, Turning my torment into music for them. They gave me life; the gift was bountiful, I lived with the swift singing strength of fire, Seeking for beauty as a flame for fuel — Beauty in all things and in every hour. The gods have given life — I gave them song; The debt is paid and now I turn to go.

We weep before the Blessed Mother's shrine, To think upon her sorrows, but her joys What nun could ever know a tithing of? The precious hours she watched above His sleep Were worth the fearful anguish of the end. Yea, lack of love is bitterest of all.

All this grows bitter that was once so sweet, And many mouths must drain the dregs of it. But none will pity me, nor pity him Whom Love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs.