Beautiful As A Dandelion-blossom, Golden In The

Oh, You Mean I'm A Homosexual! Of Course I Am, And Heterosexual Too, But What's That Got To Do With My Headache?

Love Is Not All: It Is Not Meat Nor Drink Nor Slumber Nor A Roof Against The Rain; Nor Yet A Floating Spar To Men That Sink And Rise And Sink And Rise And Sink Again; Love Can Not Fill The Thickened Lung With Breath, Nor Clean The Blood, Nor Set The Fractured Bone; Yet Many A Man Is Making Friends With Death Even As I Speak, For Lack Of Love Alone.

A Poem From Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was It For This I Uttered Prayers, And Sobbed And Cursed And Kicked The Stairs, That Now, Domestic As A Plate, I Should Retire At Half-past Eight?

Where You Used To Be, There Is A Hole In The World, Which I Find Myself Constantly Walking Around In The Daytime, And Falling In At Night. I Miss You Like Hell.

Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs.