Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.

Each time we love, We turn a nearer and a broader mark To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.

Everything is sweetened by risk.

We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who hold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet; One little hour! And then, away they speed On lonely paths, thr…

The boy on the Oakland porch goes to sleep upon the universe of ice and wakes up and remembers the death of his father and mother, and sees the sun.

They darted down and rose up like a wave Or buzzed impetuously as before; One would have thought the corpse was held a slave To living by the life it bore!

And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds, His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade